


This Shadowed Path

by Scilera



Category: Egyptian Mythology, The Mummy (1999), The Mummy Returns (2001), The Mummy Series
Genre: AU of an AU, Age Difference, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Magic, Past Sexual Abuse, Soul Bond, Tags to be added as needed, Underage Sex, accidentally
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6044689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scilera/pseuds/Scilera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Had he still been a boy, his uncle’s thin hands might have been enough to hold him fast.  Then again, at the hands of that phrase – had he still been a boy – none of this would have happened.</p>
<p>An AU of an AU written by the very talented Pakeha in which we explore the possibilities of Uncle Jonathan's grasp - and, more importantly, what happens when it is not strong enough to hold back a headstrong teenager who doesn't have the faintest clue what he's doing... but jumps in headfirst anyway.  Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pakeha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pakeha/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Let the Sands of Time Scrape us Clean](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4659078) by [Pakeha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pakeha/pseuds/Pakeha). 



> Because AO3 will only let me link to a work and not a series, I'm putting the link here. This story is an AU of Pakeha's work and branches off at their piece Let the Sands of Time Scrape Us Clean, which is why I chose that one for the 'inspiration' link. All pieces before it chronologically, however, are canon history for this story and there will be references to them as we go along. If you like this pairing, you should go read the rest of the original series - I know I personally can't wait until the next installment is posted.
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/series/109262
> 
> There really should be more works out there for this pairing - there are so very many possibilities!

Had he still been a boy, his uncle’s thin hands might have been enough to hold him fast.

Then again, at the hands of that phrase – had he still been a boy – none of this would have happened.

Everyone grows at different paces, in different ways.  Alex had thought himself a man for at least three years, now.  It was the result, he would argue later, of having been raised around death and danger the way he had been.  If he lived long enough, he might eventually come to recognize it as simply a function of teenage boys to think themselves invincible, but with his captor clinging to the edge of the precipice with tears bright in dark eyes as the woman he’d sacrificed everything to be with left him to die, with the surge of panic and _fury_ that sang in Alex’s veins when that tearful (remorseful?) gaze turned to meet his one last time – with the rush of adrenaline-fueled strength that let him burst through Uncle Jonathan’s well-meaning grasp… Alex wasn’t exactly thinking long-term.

Nor were his chances of living past today very high.

His parents were too busy saving each other to notice their seventeen year old son racing across crumbling ground behind them and skidding to the edge on his chest.  They were too strained trying to combine their strength to haul his father to safety to see Alex plunge both arms into the chasm and take a firm grasp on shoulders whose slope had been burned into his memory. 

“Oh no you fucking don’t,” Alex hissed, straining until the tendons in his neck stood in sharp relief.  He didn’t know what secrets were written across his face – he wasn’t even entirely sure just what the hell he was _doing_ – but whatever it was that Imhotep saw there sent a jolt of shock that first slackened his face and then softened it.  Thin lips parted and in his entire life Alex had never heard the four syllables of his name whispered with such reverence.  It made his chest feel tight, like his ribs had suddenly shrunk around a heart and lungs already too big for their home.

In a moment of terrible clarity, Alex knew what that one word was.  It was eureka; it was goodbye.

“Please,” he hissed, the word choked by the wet clench of his desperate throat – flavored by the salt of the single tear that fell from his lashes to his captor’s cheekbone.  His arms were on fire and he could feel the slow scrape of stone burning the skin of his chest and stomach as he slid slowly forward.  He knew better than anyone the strength in the body he clung to – Imhotep was many terrible things, but weak had never been one of them.  If only he would _try,_ would lend his power to Alex’s desperation, they would be alright.  Everything would be alright.

Even Alex knew his thought process wasn’t exactly rational.  It didn’t stop him acting on it, but at least he knew he wasn’t operating under anything resembling logic. 

“Please,” he repeated, pain and physical effort making his voice crack when he tried to add some volume to his plea.  If the bastard would just _try,_ they wouldn’t be on this precipice anymore, but the arms he pulled at made no effort to push their owner from danger.

“O Youth who came forth from the Double Scepter Nome, I have not been neglectful of truthful words.”

It was a passage Alex knew well, taken directly from the confessions before Ma’at at the weighing of souls.  It was one of a set – forty-two give or take – but the fact that the lips which shaped it formed no others was telling.  It was _damning._  And Alex had no earthly idea whether he believed in any god, but this felt so final.  This felt so… this felt so much like loss.  There was magic in those words, and for reasons beyond his understanding, Alex found himself rapidly reciting the first five – and would have gone on because in the chaotic mess of his mind, it seemed like the right idea.

“Alexander.”  His name was spoken again, simultaneously firmer and warmer than he had ever heard this particular voice.  The softness had retreated from Imhotep’s hawkish face, replaced by a fierce determination until only dark eyes held onto the affection Alex had been so adamant he never wanted to see.  “He-who-is-Blood who came forth from the place of slaughter, I am no longer blinded by greed – “ and for a single, terrible moment, hope bloomed in Alex’s chest, sprouting a bright and fragile grin to blossom across his dirt-streaked face.  He gave in too soon; he did not see the way Imhotep’s gaze lifted above them both, to something over his shoulder, he did not see the single nod the son of Ptah exchanged with the daughter of his ancient enemy.  He did hear the deliberate alteration of the confession, but by then it was too late.  Pain blossomed in the base of his skull and his world spiraled into darkness, echoes only of a dead man’s last words following him down into nothingness.

“ – I am glad of my one.”

 

  * \- -



 

As the high priest fell into the pits of those who are damned, he did not weep; he was the first in three thousand years to endure the crossing without shedding a single tear for his own soul.  The barrier almost did not let him pass – very nearly was he consigned to an eternity of numb emptiness with the rest of those that were no longer fully human – but a burning on his cheek before he was allowed to fall once more reminded him of what had dropped from Alexander’s miserable eyes.   _Alexander._  There was a sharp and aching beauty in the irony of his conquest; in the knowledge that his prize had fully belonged to him only in the moment he realized the extent of his grievous error… the depth of his sins against the only soul to stand by him when he was brought so very low.

It was a sensation he could liken only to having his soul pierced by the sharpest sword.  There was a euphoria he had not yet dared to name – so blinded by his thirst for vengeance that he forgot how fleeting all life truly is – but there was nothing left to hide from.  It was freeing to know that he had, in some small measure, been cared for, but that knowledge came with the raw understanding that he had chosen unwisely.  He had missed the very great blessing thrown practically into his lap – had abused and misused it until any lesser mortal would have been broken beyond repair.

But not his prize.

It was comforting to know that Alexander’s flame would long outlast his ashes.  It was small comfort, given the torment he was sure came now, but he clung to it all the same.  He clung to it as he fell through darkness; he clung to it as he fell through water.  He clung to it as he plummeted through the vast, glittering expanse of an endless night sky. 

And – if he was completely honest with himself, which at this point seemed like all he had left – it was all that held him together when his body struck solid marble hard enough to crack its surface. 

This… was not at all what he expected.  He held his breath against pain that did not come.  When he tried to release it and draw life into his lungs, he found them constricted, useless, frozen.  After such a fall, paralysis was not even a little bit out of the question, but as he lay there, the lack of breath did not steal consciousness the way his body felt it should.  So when Imhotep found himself able not only to move, but to rise and stand on his own feet, it came as something of an understandable shock.

Only then did he take stock of his surroundings.

Only then did the lamps ignite around him.

Only then did he understand.

“How long has it been since Iset lost a wager, hmm?”  The voice came from the shadows on his left, but Imhotep could not yet see its source.  It was low, purring, distinctly female, but there was a power to it that only mothers possessed.

“Hush, beloved.  She has not lost it yet.”  The second voice came from the shadows on his right.  It was higher than the first, but had within it a wildcat’s screaming power despite speaking at little more than a murmur.  The fact that it was also female – also spoke the tongue of Ancients – and referred to the first voice as only lovers would do… it set his teeth on edge.

It wasn’t that he was a hypocrite – this was one crime he would not lay at his own feet – but there were some cultural taboos that take root in the marrow of the bone and are not so easily shaken.

“Baast.  Sakhet.”  This final voice was distinctly male, rich and warm with equal parts power and affection.  “Is this any way to greet your son?”  Imhotep was so focused on trying to understand the familiarity this man’s tone stirred in him that he did not immediately comprehend the question.  The moment he caught up, his mouth opened and he made to speak of staunch denial – disbelief.  But no sounds emerged.  His stomach clenched, his throat moved, his tongue and lips shaped the words he wanted, but he could not speak a single one.

“Hah, this empty scarab beetle is no son of mine.”

“He carries the stench of tainted blood, of rotting flesh.  How come you to call this vulture our kin?”

From the darkness outside Imhotep’s single ring of warm lamp light, a man emerged.  He was taller than any man Imhotep had ever seen – at least twice the height of Lock-Nah and probably closer to two and a half times his size – and his skin was the same fertile green as the jade which came from the farthest expeditions to the east.  He was garbed in the white shroud of the dead but wore the divine beard and carried the ankh and scepter of the pharaoh himself.  Imhotep knew him as even a blind man would know the warmth of the sun; so much of his life had been dedicated to the worship and glory of this god and his work that it would be impossible not to feel the exact weight of his entire wretched life like an albatross about his neck.

Though this body still would not form words, Imhotep sank to his knees and offered the prostration known only to the high priests before settling simply on his heels.  He sat thus with a kind of resigned grace.  He had played the game; he had lost.  The penalty of losing would be accepted with dignity – and apparently, with silence.

“I call him this,” Pitah answered, kindness in his tone and sad wisdom in his smile as he reached out to lay his hand atop the head of the priest, “because he is blood of my blood.”  From the shadows to left and right, two great lionesses – one sand and the other ash – emerged and came to sit at the heels of their mate.  Pitah lifted his hand from Imhotep and rested one on each great head beside him.  “And I have sired no offspring save by you.”

And that was that.  Fertility and the rites surrounding it were so sacred that none of the three disbelievers dared to question its truth once the ritual words of family and fidelity had been uttered.  None of them were ready to _believe,_ but none of them could speak against it (Imhotep in a literal sense) and so there fell upon them a kind of quiet that felt as though it stretched into centuries.  It was soothing, this silence; it brought a kind of stillness to Imhotep’s soul that felt very much like peace, but nothing lasts forever.

The great lioness of darkened ashes moved first, eyes narrowed in thought and suspicion as she stalked closer and bent her massive head to meet his gaze head on.  There was fire dancing in her eyes and death glinting in her fangs but he did not look away.  When this small, insignificant mortal held her gaze with neither challenge nor fear, her eyes widened and Baast looked like she had been slapped. 

If he existed at all beyond this encounter, Imhotep promised himself he would be allowed a quiet laugh at such an expression on a feline face.

“Tef?”  There was hesitation in her powerful voice for the first time, the barest sliver of tenderness mingled with disbelief to soften the very cat-like aloofness.  “Immutef?”

As if he had been the one struck on the back of the head, Imhotep found that pain exploded inside his skull with the sound of those names in that voice.  Flashes of light and color struck at him behind his eyes; he choked on scent and taste that felt like it might smother him.  Touch made his skin crawl and everything was too real, too raw – too much after the comforting anesthesia of death.

He fell forward onto the palms of his hands and for the first time heaved strained breaths into lungs that remembered their function while his heart raced to make up for the beats of which it had been deprived.  Language escaped him while life returned to his limbs with pin-and-needle pain, but there was a melody that permeated everything within him in this moment.  He hummed it under his breath with a voice that was rough and broken from disuse.  It was almost indistinguishable as music.

It was enough.

Being pounced on and smothered by two lionesses the size of locomotives had never been a scenario in which Imhotep had pictured himself, but as fur became skin and cloth and paws became arms and legs, he remembered what it was like to feel small and yet not afraid.  “Renpetneferet,” he gasped, a name he had not allowed himself to speak aloud in three thousand years.  “I could not stop him.  I could not save – “

“Hush,” Sakhet soothed.  “We know, Khatef.  We know.” In the arms of his mothers and under the watchful protection of his father, Imhotep broke down and grieved – for himself, for Ankhesenamun, for Renpetneferet and for Alexander.

 

  * \- -



 

“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Connell.  At this point there is little we can do but keep him hydrated.”

Evelyn heard the words – addressed to her husband, never to her – but it was in that surreal way she heard other languages when they were spoken in her dreams.

“After the first forty-eight hours, it’s as likely to last three months as it is three days.”

She could see the sympathetic expression every time the damnable man shifted his gaze to look nervously at her.  It was irrational – she knew it was irrational – but she hated him a little more every time.  Just for doing his job.

“Young bodies are surprisingly resilient.  The skull sustained no fracture and his other injuries are minor.  There are some alternative treatments we can explore, but my professional recommendation is to let the boy rest.  His body knows what to do.”

It was the most useless advice Evie had ever heard in her life and this was the foremost physician in the whole bloody backwards country.  That sum of facts was nearly enough to have her swinging at him, but Rick knew what was coming and smoothly stepped to one side until he had physically blocked her access to the doctor with his own (taller, broader) body.

“Thank you, Dr Khouri.  We’ll take that into consideration.”

The good doctor knew his cue to exit when he heard it, pausing only long enough to shake the hand Rick offered before practically bolting out the door.

“I’ll kill him,” she spat, fingers flexing at her sides – gripping blades that were not there.  “I’ll tear open his throat and watch him bleed out on the sand.” 

“I know, honey.  I know.”  Rick turned and wrapped her up in both arms, face buried in her hair.

“I’ll kill him,” she repeated, this time unable to fight the tears that would undoubtedly leave a mess over the front of her husband’s shirt.

They both knew she wasn’t talking about the doctor.

 

  * \- -



 

The sound of heavy drums began in the distance, warning enough that this moment of respite was not to last.  Imhotep stood and straightened his robes, head held high.  Divine heritage or no, this was a rite of passage for all souls at this stage of their journey. 

“Remember, Khatef; death is only the beginning.”

It was advice that pricked at the rapidly unfurling spools of memory in a way he knew would grow fresh questions in his mind if he stayed himself after this.  There wasn’t time to dwell on such things now, though – not when Anubis and Ma’at approached with the scale and ostrich feather.

Ma’at he could not see well enough to pin down her appearance in his mind; she was half hidden and half fluid, maintaining solid form but never static details.  Anubis, however, was like looking into a mirror and seeing everything he most hated within himself.  The way he bared his teeth to the jackal was pure instinct, but it did not stop his respectful bow toward the keeper of justice. 

“Imhotep, son of Pitah.”  Her voice was sharp and cold – distant and impartial.  “You served your mortal life among the most devout.  You know why we are here.”

“I do.”

“Do you believe your heart-soul can balance against Shu?”

“No, I do not.”  This answer seemed to startle Ma’at, for she paused in her ritual recitation and turned her featureless face to stare down at this strange mortal.  “But I do not deny your right to judge it for yourself and thus fulfill your ancient pact with Ammit.”  That smooth face tilted slowly to one side, examining him thoroughly before beckoning him closer with one hand.

“Then come to me, son of the two Kingdoms, and we shall see what it is that so weighs upon your heart.”

Imhotep did as he was told, passing his mothers and father with even strides and stopping in front of the goddess shaped in ever-flowing ice and marble.  She reached out one pale hand to rest against his chest, drawing from him the heart-soul which was the essence of each life.  She had seen this one when it had passed into this body; remembering its former splendor when faced with the current decay made even the cold heart of Justice stir within her breast.  The wounds – gouges and bruises and twisted scars – were ancient, but the casing of stone had let them rot and fester rather than heal.  The shield he had built around himself had become his crutch and later his poison, but what had once been airtight was now little more than crumbling ruins, a ring around the last few places that were raw and vulnerable and red with life.  There were little more than glimpses left, but not everything had surrendered to the black decay; not yet.

“Proceed, Imhotep.”  The sad resignation in the voice of Ma’at told him more than even the gleeful smirk on the jackal’s smug maw, but he did not resent her for it.  Taking his heart-soul into his own calloused hands, he stepped up to the scale and held it over the empty plate. 

“He-who-is-Blood who came forth from the place of slaughter, I am not greedy.”

It was not the proper confession, but though the words made Anubis snarl, Ma’at allowed them to stand.  There was some kind of commotion behind him, but the force of the scales’ magic had already begun to whip around him and made it nearly impossible to focus on anything else.  It did not matter.  He only had one further confession he could make at any rate.

“Youth who came forth from the Double Scepter Nome, I have not been neglectful of truthful words.”

There was a finality in this confession, because in all his wretched existence he had never known the meaning of anything so deeply as he did this.  But instead of the wise aspect of Justice behind his eyes when he said it, it was sharp angles and pale skin, freckles dusted across sunburn and sandy hair fallen over hazy blue eyes.  This was his truth and here at the end of all things, it was enough.  He could feel the weight of everything left unspoken pulling down at the heart-soul in his hands, tugging against the weight of the feather in an inexorable pull toward damnation.  He did not feel ready – no one ever felt _ready_ – but he was resigned to his fate.  One last time, Imhotep let his eyes slide closed and waited for the jaws of Ammit.

They did not come.

Instead there was a subtle _lessening_ of the weight he bore – the sensation identical to the division of a heavy load between two sets of shoulders.  Instead there was a source of unimaginable heat beside him… and though he could not look away from the blinding light of the scales as they calculated, the voice that shouted out into the wind beneath his ear was one he would never be able to forget.

“Oh Wide-strider who came forth from Heliopolis, I have not done wrong.”

_Foolish boy._  

 

  * \- -



 

Not that, you know, he’d had a whole lot of experience with it, but Alex was pretty sure that being knocked unconscious wasn’t supposed to leave you _aware_ of all the blackness you were swimming through while your brain sorted itself out.  From the descriptions he’d gleaned growing up (from father, mother _and_ uncle) he’d rather thought it was like folding time into a smaller piece.  You were out and the next thing you knew you were awake again with no concept of the hours or days or weeks that had passed in the meantime.

He hadn’t known what was happening as it happened, of course, but he’d spent a _very_ long time being bored out of his wits whilst floating about the vaguely space-like area inside his own head.  It had meant a lot of time for thought (for dreams, for memories, for regrets) and he’d mostly pieced it together during the times between.  Then he’d gotten angry.  Unfortunately for him there wasn’t a lot to take your anger out _on_ while in outer space inside your own head.  It would flare up from time to time like a nebula, but with nothing to act upon it always petered out again.

As it turned out, now was one of the not-angry times and Alex found himself bored enough to be reciting Sophocles in the original Greek simply to pass the time.  He’d just gotten to the bit with the soldiers and nobody liking the bearer of bad news when something _changed._  There was a bucking sensation like a horse had just tried to throw him (something with which he was unhappily familiar) and then he was falling.  At first this was (understandably) alarming, but after about an hour of just endlessly falling, this too became dull.  First he’d tried to calculate his approximate speed based on the time it took his hand to snap back to its fullest height after he’d made the muscles in that arm go slack.

Maths… had never been his strong suit.

He’d just about decided to go back to Sophocles when he collided with something large, warm and very furry.  “Sorry about that, old girl,” he grumbled as he tried to right himself.  “Never fancied falling onto a horse in my own head.  Thought all those lessons would have chased them out years a… go.  Oh, horse shit.”

It was not, as he had just discovered, a horse that he had collided with, but rather a lioness roughly the _size_ of one.  Said lioness was now staring at him like a mouse caught in a trap – and to make things even better, she had a friend.  “I, um.  Shouldn’t have said that,” he faltered.  “Er, the um, the ‘old girl’ bit, not the sorry bit.  Cause I am.  Uh, sorry, not an old girl – not that you are either!  Just that, um.  … Please don’t eat me?”

“You would hardly make a mouthful.  Why would I waste the effort?”

He had not expected her to talk back. 

“That’s… fair, I suppose.”

Although really, after the life he’d had (and the last few weeks he’d had for sure) it really shouldn’t have surprised him so much as it did.

“I’m A-“

“Yes, we know who you are, young one.”  This time the friend butted in.  She was darker than the lioness he’d landed on but definitely not any smaller.  “What we don’t know is why you’re here.”

“Come to witness your handiwork, perhaps?”

“Well that makes two of u- hey!  I didn’t – what?  What handiwork?  Who the bloody hell are you and what am I supposed to have done _now_?”

“We are mothers watching our son about to do something incredibly foolish and get himself killed.”

“Oh.”  For some reason, that answer made them both seem suddenly far too much like his own mother for Alex’s comfort.  “I’m… I’m sorry.”  Partly because that was the done thing – to apologize at someone else’s bad news – but also because he found he genuinely was.  He had a lot more sympathy for mothers of stupid children now than he had a fortnight before. 

“Are you really?”  The sandy one seemed surprised – and just a little bit bitter.

“I don’t think he knows, beloved.  Breathe him in; there will be a stench if he has tried deception.” 

“Could someone possibly clue me in to what exactly is going on?”  Alex took a step back with both hands raised defensively as the two lionesses leaned closer.  “Preferably _before_ we do any sniffing, please!”

“By the water, he truly does not know.”

“Then how could he be here?  How could he possibly be – “

The rapidfire questions were cut short as Alex doubled over, a crushing ache behind his lungs.

“Oh.”

One word, one syllable – two voices in unison.

“Answers.  Would be.  Nice.  Right.  About.  Now.”  Alex’s response was broken and strained as he struggled to draw air again, but every ounce of his fed-up frustration came through loud and clear.  Rather than respond outright, however, the two lionesses simply stepped back, like having the red curtains parted before the start of a play.  Alex watched as an all too familiar silhouette was slowly engulfed by the white-gold light of truly unmistakable scales. 

“Doing.  Something.  Stupid.  Literally.  Every.  Day.”

Later it would occur to him to maybe _ask_ why the person he wanted to hate more than anything else in the world had _two dire lions_ for mums, but just now he felt that anger flooding right back into his veins and this time?  This time there was an outlet.

“If we live through this,” he told the two oversized felines, “I’m going to break his nose.”

And as the lanky youth strode right into the blinding light (all the while muttering under his breath about insanity running in both sides of his family) both goddesses rather agreed he had every right to do it.

 

  * \- -



 

“Well this is anticlimactic.”

Alex was not amused.

“It’s dark.  Again.  I am floating.  Again.  I am actually going to die of boredom.  _Again._ ”

There was an extended, stuffy silence after he spoke.  It wasn’t hot and it wasn’t cold.  There was nothing here to touch, but the sound of his own voice was heavy, like when speaking in a radio room with carpet on floor, walls and ceiling.  It was a little disorienting to be honest, but even as he started to wish for _anything_ to alleviate the empty monotony, Alex found reason to take it back.

“You should, perhaps, have thought of this before binding your soul to one damned to an eternity in Duat.”

That voice.

He knew that voice; it sent ice up his spine and put butterflies in his stomach all at the same time.

“Which could have been avoided if you weren’t so intent on physically flinging yourself into hell in the first place.”

“I had no choic-“

“Horse shit.”

“Ankhesenamun – “

“Was a mental bitch who was more in love with power than with you.  Yeah, I know.  Lit-er-ally everyone knows.  That doesn’t mean the only option is ‘fling self off cliff into hell’.  I was _right there._ ”

In the extended silence which followed his outburst, Alex had plenty of time to wish he’d been able to make that come out more angry and less sullen.

“It was not the only option, but it was the one that was right.”

“Bu-“

“No, Alexander.”  This time it was Alex being interrupted and his jaw closed with an audible snap.  “Had I accepted your help, you would never have been free.  I have never claimed to be a good man, but I refused to repay your loyalty with more suffering.  You would have seen your tormentor destroyed – forever out of reach of hurting you again.  It was… perhaps the only noble thing I had ever done.”

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t see the (twisted, convoluted) logic involved in that decision process, but Alex still had a lot of anger boiling underneath his skin and though he couldn’t exactly break a nose he couldn’t see, he could _certainly_ unleash it in other ways.

“No, it wasn’t,” he snarled, fury snapping along nerve endings until it felt like his entire body was a live wire.  “I don’t care that you had sex with me.  Yeah, I know, believe me it’s just as fucked up in my head as it sounds out loud.  I get that.  But it’s true.  I don’t.  What pisses me off is that you took away my choices.  Over and over and over again, you ripped them away from me until there were days I looked at you before choosing which bite of food I wanted from my own damn plate.”  He paused then, rubbing at the back of his neck and lowering his voice from a shout to a low growl.  “I didn’t even so much mind _that_ all the time, because sometimes when I bent it seemed like it made you relax and when you calmed the fuck down I’d get glimpses of someone I… liked.  Someone who could have cared about _me_ instead of what vengeance he could wreak by using me.”  Alex shook himself and when he spoke again, the anger was once again close to the surface.  “But honest to _God,_ Imhotep, when it affects my _life_ – I get. To have.  A goddamn _say._  In what happens.”

The silence that stretched out between them then felt like a hollow victory.

“It was foolish in the extreme to risk your life – your very _soul_ – for the sake of a monster who _might_ have cared for you.”  They were chilling words indeed, but there was a bitterness to them that made Alex feel bold. 

“Look, I’ll be the first to admit that your gods are pretty universally insane, but Ma’at sees everything when she does the scale thing.  If you really were a complete monster who didn’t care, I don’t think it would have worked.”

Imhotep’s answering laugh was dark and strangely sad.

“Your logic is fallacy, Alexander.  Look around you.  This is Duat.  Whatever you thought you would achieve with this madness, the plan has obviously failed.”

“But that doesn’t disprove my theory unless – “

Alex blinked once and suddenly the world was not black and empty anymore.

The ground was wet and sucking under his feet, but he did not sink.  The air was thick with flowers and spices but the cool breeze kept the heat from being overwhelming.  There were great green reeds all around him and he could sense a tall body directly behind him.  The fact that he didn’t even need to glance over his shoulder to know that it was Imhotep probably should have worried him a little. 

It didn’t, but it should have.

“Er – why are we in a marsh?  I don’t remember anything about a swamp in the underworld.”

“It is not a swamp,” Imhotep corrected him quietly, something that sounded almost like amusement warming his voice.  “This is papyrus.  We are in the flood plain.”

“Oh!  Right.  The papyrus fields.  Wait, if that’s this then where’s – “

“Ausir?”  The addition of a third voice to Alex’s left had them both whirling around to face it.  The fact that they ended up with Imhotep physically between Alex and the unknown was just a coincidence of movement.  Surely.  Nevertheless, Ma’at – the owner of the third voice – looked… well, about as amused as a goddess made of ice and marble _could_ look.

“I was going to say Osiris, but yeah, essentially.” 

Imhotep’s wrist twitched like he wanted to silence the boy before his mouth got them into trouble, but he squashed that impulse and simply watched the goddess warily.

“You say tomato…”  The modern idiom coming from the mouth of this ancient being startled a laugh out of Alex; Imhotep only scowled deeper.  “You aren’t passing through Ausir’s gate today, young one.”  Alex’s shoulders slumped forward.

“So it didn’t work.”

“Do not despair, child.  The binding of souls saved the son of Pitah from the jaws of Ammit.  Your devotion and his remaining divinity were enough to balance the scales, but only just.”

“Okay,” Alex answered, stepping up beside Imhotep and pretending he did not see the way that arm nearest him moved as though it would haul him back safely behind his… whatever before the motion was aborted.  “So what does that mean for us?”

“The son of Pitah will be sent back to the time he should have been given – before the viper led him into the path of that terrible curse.  He will know nothing of his future; mere mortals cannot hold two existences at once within themselves, so it will be locked away.  You, son of Nefertiri, will go with him as you must; bound souls cannot stray far.  You will remember, but he will not.  Your fates are tied to one another, now.  If your influence is enough to keep him on his true path, then you both will be free.  Do you understand?”

“Not in the least, but that hasn’t stopped me yet.”

This time the goddess laughed, tilting her head back to indulge in the sensation before laying her cold hand over Alex’s head in blessing.  “You will be good for the ancient kingdoms, Alaexandros.”  Only then did she turn to Imhotep, the humor draining away but not the kindness that had at first seemed so alien in her.  “Teach him what he must know to survive, Immutef; much depends on your mutual success.”

“Right,” Alex grumbled.  “Because that’s not cryptic or anything.”

Ma’at ignored him.  “When you are ready, call for the gate and it will appear.”

And without warning or fanfare, she was gone.

 

  * \- -



 

This was madness.

With Ma’at gone, silence had descended among the papyrus, leaving Imhotep to thoughts that went only in endless circles.  It was frustrating; a helplessness which was exorcised in the only way currently available.  He paced.  A lot. 

“This is madness,” he repeated aloud, though really to no one in particular.

“So you’ve said.”  Alexander’s voice was enough to startle him.  “Multiple times.”  The boy simply stood there, watching him pace with both arms folded over his chest.

“I say it because it is true,” he snapped back, propelled once more into zero sum movement back and forth over his little stretch of field.  “How am I meant to learn from my errors when the trial is to be administered in such a way that I will not have the knowledge to keep me from those same mistakes?  It makes no sense!”

Alexander was silent, but there was a quality to his stillness that Imhotep knew meant he was listening.

“I could fill your head with the entirety of the law, people, culture, worship… I could teach you to assume any role in the kingdom, but none of it will mean _anything_ except you surviving long enough to watch me fail.”

It was a strange, unfamiliar comfort, being actively, _willingly_ listened to.  It frightened Imhotep, but at the same time kept him from flying entirely off the handle.  Eventually his pacing stopped and he scrubbed both hands over his face – anything to buy himself another moment to think.  Just one more and he’d come up with the solution to the riddle, surely.

Except he didn’t.

“I don’t think that’s what she meant.” 

It wasn’t so much the words that startled him; it was the sense of loss that came with them because somehow he felt like they should have come with a hand resting against his skin.  It was a foolish and ridiculous assumption – had their positions been reversed, Imhotep knew he would not want to touch his tormentor ever again – and he felt heat in his face for his own stupidity, but he could not shake the ache of something missing. 

“Then what could she _possibly_ have meant, child?”  His confusion and discomfort made his retort much sharper than it should have been – sharper even than he’d meant it.  The scowl that twisted Alex’s face in response was expected; his answer, however, was not.

“I am not a child.”  That stopped the reply on the tip of his tongue.  _That_ was the point this frustrating mortal was going to argue right now?  “The – frankly ridiculous – age gap issue aside, you lost the right to treat me like one when you took me to bed.”  There wasn’t an accusation in the tone, but Imhotep’s own conscience made him flinch from it anyway.  “Not that it stopped you before, but it will stop now.  I have a _say_ now.  I will spend forever right here in this papyrus field before I do this on uneven footing.”

And all of that was inherently fair; Imhotep had no grounds on which to argue any point, but there was still something cold and knotted in his stomach that made him ask one thing.

“This,” he gestured between them, “has _never_ been on even footing.  Why - ?”  He cut himself off, unable to even vocalize the question for how exposed it made him feel.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m _really_ bad at the whole ‘slave’ thing.”  Alex’s deadpan delivery did exactly what Imhotep suspected he had intended; it made him snort a single breath of laughter.  It was enough of a break in the tension that he turned to look him in the face.  “I didn’t lean over the edge of hell to save my master.”  The little smile curling in one corner of Alex’s mouth was distracting.  “I did it to save you.”

“But then what am I?” he asked, voice little more than a breath.

Alex’s smile grew – and went just a little bit crooked.  “What I tried to tell you earlier.  I think that’s what the riddle is.”

It was not an easy sensation for someone who had spent so much of his life with every answer he’d ever needed right as his fingertips, but this time Imhotep did not know.  He did not understand the rules and it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. 

“I do not follow.”

It was even _less_ of an easy thing to admit.  Imhotep felt himself growing instinctively defensive, but the reaction faltered and petered out when Alex simply shrugged without judgment.

“I mean, I’m not really all that sure I do either, but if we’ve got to go somewhere you won’t remember anything important, I’ve got to remember it for you, right?”  Imhotep nodded once, willing to see where this was going, at least.  “But that does us no good if you don’t remember me either, so I think…”  Here he faltered too, color coming up under freckled skin with a very innocent awkwardness.  “I _think_ what she meant was teach me what I need to know so you’ll let me close enough to be _able_ to help you.”

That was…

It wasn’t that it didn’t make sense – it did – and it wasn’t that he couldn’t see the wisdom in it either; it was just that out of all the trials he could have possibly been given, this one was…  “Those are the kinds of secrets that can destroy a soul in motivated hands.”  He knew in the rational parts of his mind that Alex certainly deserved the chance to destroy him if he wanted, but that didn’t erase the primal, animal fear.

“Ma’at doesn’t lie, right?”  Suddenly Alex was much closer to him than Imhotep had remembered him being.  The change in positions and the whiplash change of subject were enough to throw him off entirely.

“Yes, but – “

“And she says your soul’s all tangled up in mine now, right?”

“That is… certainly one description of your foolishness, yes, but-“

“Then it’s fine.”

Still unreasonably annoyed by Alexander’s lack of consideration for his own wellbeing in his foolish endeavor, Imhotep found he still wasn’t following.  “What is fine?  How is _any_ of this ‘fine’?”

Alex heaved the longest, heaviest sigh of his life so far.

“Fine, let’s put it in your terms.  Simple law of self-preservation.  If destroying you would destroy me, self-interest says I’m obviously not going to do it.”

“Rationally, yes, but even you must admit, Alexander, that you are not exactly ratio-“

Imhotep never got a chance to finish his sentence – true though it might have been.  With one of Alex’s hands at the back of his neck and one twisted in the front of his robes, he was yanked sharply down into a surprisingly demanding kiss.  It stole his breath on a single, broken cry, open to lips and teeth and tongue that claimed his mouth with feeling, enthusiasm and determination… if not so much finesse.  By the time Alex had pulled far enough away to breathe, he had Imhotep’s blood smeared across his lips and Imhotep’s arms holding him tightly chest to chest.

“No,” he panted out agreement, “I’m not.”  His eyes were bright and sharp as they searched the dark ones up close.  “But neither is the way you say my name.”

And that was all it took; Imhotep could feel his resistance crumbling entirely.  The brat would have his way, but before he handed Alexander the weapons that could be his undoing, he had one last task to accomplish.  Tilting his head slightly to one side, he brushed his mouth against Alex’s ear.

“Alexander…” he breathed, allowing that one word to be flavored by all the sentiment he felt but did not entirely understand.  The way the youth shivered hard at the sound was extremely gratifying.  “Alexander,” he purred, turning to run the bridge of his nose against the sharp angle of his jaw.  The way the hand on his neck slid up to cup the back of his skull and tug him back against Alex’s mouth was thrilling. 

“Alexander,” he promised, “I will trust you with this.”

But first, he was going to show him _exactly_ what slow, intense precision could do to a simple kiss.

 


	2. Chapter 2

There had been three most likely scenarios given that he looked nothing at all like he should have been born in Memphis.  Alex was deeply annoyed that while none of them had included being woken up and shoved around by large men armed with very sharp swords, that was _exactly_ how this day started.  Before he’d even had a chance to discover who he was supposed to be in this ancient world, he had his arms bound behind his back and a sack shoved over his head.

They were crude tactics – Namibian mercenaries were far scarier with less than half the fuss – but at least by the time Alex had been marched through about two dozen city streets and shoved to his knees, he was very much awake.  He squinted against the light cast by two enormous oil lamps when the sack was ripped away, but though his initial captors stood back at a more than reasonable distance, no one was volunteering to unbind his wrists.

“Hospitality could use some work.”  It was only supposed to be a low mutter to himself – he’d even done it in Greek so as to lower the chances of being understood even if he _was_ overheard.  But this was obviously just not his day.

“You must forgive my protectors.”  He _knew_ that voice, though he couldn’t yet see the viper it belonged to.  “They are often overzealous in the pursuit of my happiness and safety.” 

“Ankhesenamun,” he spat back, his own venom disguised in dry sarcasm.  “You could have just sent a note.”  Against all odds or expectation, that only made her laugh.

“If you know who I am you know why that simply would not do.”

Finally she emerged, stepping from behind one of the room’s enormous pillars draped in obscene amounts of jewelry and clothed only in sheer white linen.  It wasn’t anything Alex hadn’t seen before; his position as Imhotep’s ‘pet’ had made him less than furniture to her.  The way she smiled at him – sultry and deceptively soft – and her body language made it abundantly clear what she wanted to inspire, but he was honestly a bit underwhelmed. 

“On the contrary, my lady,” he evaded, using the formal address and excuse Imhotep had prepared him with.  “The whole kingdom knows your name.  How could I be any different?”  It worked, netting him a coquettish little laugh.  Objectively, he supposed, it was a nice enough sound, but it made his stomach turn. 

After the leonine rumble of Imhotep’s mirth, Alex was fairly certain nothing else would sound right.  He wasn’t exactly _thrilled_ about that, but he wasn’t delusional enough to doubt it either.

“Who knew the bastard son of the princess would be so charming?”  Barbs laced with honey… this was _absolutely_ the Ankhesenamun he remembered.  “I should very much like to meet your father.  The gods only know you did not come by such grace from your mother.”

That struck closer to home than he’d like, but he clenched his jaw and remained silent.  It was just as well; Ankhesenamun saw it as a victory and he escaped that moment of crisis without handing her a real one.

“Alaexandros of Crete…  The son of a mercenary and a whore, they tell me.  Hah!  Likely tale.  There are thousands of such brats reared in temples all over both kingdoms and yet here you are, a prize of my very own.”  The implications of that word alone were still hot-button topics for Alex, but to hear it from _her_ made him sick to his stomach.  “Just think of what else I could accomplish,” she purred, bending to breathe the words right against his ear, “when given the proper incentive.”

He did not flinch from her, but it was a very near thing.

“I suppose anything you desired, my lady.”  Alex kept his voice neutral and his eyes fixed blankly into the middle distance ahead.  It was a defense that got harder to maintain when the queen-to-be began rubbing up against his shoulder like a housecat, but it was one he understood it was vital to maintain.

“Exactly so, my pet.  Would you not agree, then, that it would be in your best interests to please me?”

“Probably, my lady, but I doubt I would be of much use.”  It was the politest way he could think of to decline.  Unfortunately, it was perhaps a bit _too_ polite to be effective. 

“Oh, I could imagine a few ways.  I am infamously generous to those who… please me.”

The verb she chose had very distinct connotations when used just this way; it conjured visions of his head between her thighs – both her hands gripping his hair while she rode his face.  Alex felt bile rise in the back of his throat and cold sweat break out over his skin. 

“Go to hell,” he growled, turning to glare up at her in open defiance.  The curse wasn’t a native one by any means, the literal translation being something closer to ‘rot in Duat’, but the general sentiment carried over well enough.  For just a fleeting moment there was raw, venomous hatred in her gaze, glossed over quickly by faux pity and a picturesque little pout.

“Oh well,” she crooned, saccharine sympathy not doing much to disguise smug satisfaction and wicked glee.  “It seems I really have no choice, then.  Such a pity, you could have been fun.”

“So sorry, my lady,” Alex sneered as the sack was once again shoved over his head.  “I don’t play with Pharaoh’s toys.”

Something struck his ear hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor.  It might have been unwise to lose his temper and lash out that way, but as Alex lost his grip on consciousness, he really didn’t very much care.

 

  * \- -



 

The next thing Alex knew, he was falling again, dumped out onto another floor – though this one was cut from rough stone rather than smooth marble – and left trying to gain his bearings through a splitting headache and multiple new bruises.  At first the only sound was the rustling of what sounded like paper.  No, wrong era; papyrus, not paper.  The rustling faded to silence for a moment before that was interrupted by the cracking of freshly fed flames. 

“A gift, indeed.”

He knew this voice as well, but rather than the dread and tension the first had inspired, this one was… well, ‘welcome’ was still an awfully strong word, but Alex couldn’t fight the way his entire body relaxed.

“Please relay to your gracious mistress that her generosity is like the life-giving sun; I am both humbled and nourished by its attention.”

Fully recognizing that he was a very green player in all of this, Alex thought that sounded like a load of horse shit.  Still, it made the majority of the people in the room with them _leave,_ which could only be a good thing.

He hoped.

There was silence again after that, for what felt like hours but was probably only ten minutes at the most.  This time it was the rustle of fabric that broke it, the soft sounds of movement as someone with a lot more grace than he had rose and came near.  Body heat and sound were his first indicators as a very familiar form knelt beside him.  He smelled wine and myrrh and spices and the dry tang of ink and papyrus.  The rope binding his wrists was the first to be cut, followed by sure hands massaging the blood back into his hands.  Only then was he rolled to his side, the sack cut and pulled gently away from his face before his head was settled in a warm lap.  Opening his eyes was more painful – more of a struggle – than he’d anticipated, but he wanted to _see_ that he was safe, not just feel like he was. 

The sight of Imhotep’s familiar face – the same but somehow younger – folded into an equally familiar thoughtful frown was far more reassuring than the rational parts of him said it should have been.  Gentle fingertips pressed against the side of his neck, jaw, ear and skull with knowing precision, seeking out further damage before the superficial mess was attended to.

“Be still,” he murmured, voice distant while his focus was on his immediate work.  “I mean you no harm.”

Alex found this funny, but with his pounding head being poked at, laughing was just not about to happen.  Still, there was a smile on his face as he lifted one hand and made the sign of those who were acolytes of Sekhmet.  The sharp intake of breath above him was gratifying – both because he didn’t often get the pleasure of surprising Imhotep and because it meant it had been seen and he could let his arms go slack again.

“So it is true, then,” he sighed, reaching to one side and wringing out a cloth over a bowl before dabbing the damp heat at the place where Ankhesenamun’s strike had broken his skin.  “You are Alaexandros, son of Nefertiri.”

“I am Alaexandros,” he confirmed in the half-whisper that made his head hurt least.  “But I do not know my mother.”  It was as close to completely honest as he could be and for reasons he would rather not examine all that closely, Alex found that he _wanted_ to be honest.  It was made easier by the fact that Imhotep asked nothing and offered nothing for a long time, seemingly intent on cleaning and then bandaging his patient’s head wound.  The next time Alex heard anything from him was a soft shushing sound as he lifted the young man from the floor and settled him somewhere higher and much softer. 

He disappeared then and Alex drifted in and out of awareness for a while before strong arms brought him upright so that his head settled on a broad, bare shoulder.  “Here,” Imhotep coaxed.  “Drink this.”  Alex, who had never in his life demonstrated any kind of real talent for obedience, did as he was told and drank.  It was tea, he was pretty sure – or at least, something very like it.  Spicy and tangy and sweet, it had a hint of smoky aftertaste and left him feeling much better after only a few small sips.  He dozed off for a while on Imhotep’s shoulder, but was still cognizant enough to offer a sleepy protest when he was once again moved.  The last thing he remembered was low laughter and a soft order to sleep now.

After that, all was dreamless darkness; time folded in on itself.

 

  * \- -



 

Waking up slowly was a luxury Alex had all but forgotten.  Doing so in a comfortable bed tangled with cool sheets while the warm sun slanted through the wide window to warm his skin was… frankly, this was what he had always imagined heaven must feel like.  He took his time, luxuriating in a long, deep stretch.  His body felt better than it had in a long time; something about that tripped at the back of his brain like that shouldn’t be right, but he wasn’t awake enough to worry all that much.  Finally he let his eyes flutter open and sat upright, linen sheets pooling around his waist.  The rooms he found himself in were large and open, situated on an outcropping with a beautiful view overlooking the Nile.  There was an elaborately carved wooden tray on the table nearest the balcony, laden with fresh fruits and cool wine.  It was to this he walked first, lifting a pomegranate half to his lips before stepping out onto the balcony proper.

It felt good here, the breeze off the water kissed his bare skin and the Nile itself was close enough that he could hear it lapping against the shore.  Off to the right, the din of the city’s sacred markets was muted but still present; to the left and further upstream, the low sound of farmers’ work chants wove in and among the winds like a bird.  Rich flavor and succulent juice burst on his tongue with the first bite and the humming moan it inspired was obscene.

Everything was vivid and yet nothing felt real.  It was good; everything was good.  Alex ate the rest of his pomegranate half and then selected another.  He could feel Imhotep approaching and did not think twice about this knowledge, he simply smiled as he bit into his breakfast and made rather a mess of it.  So that when Imhotep actually set foot inside his own chambers, it was to find the royal bastard standing on his balcony wrapped in nothing but a sheet, twisting his upper half to smile warm welcome over his shoulder with… pomegranate juice sliding down the skin of his throat.

Alex caught sight of the high priest and his breath hitched.  He felt compelled to turn around entirely to get a better look because he’d _never_ seen him look quite like this before.  This was unmistakably a high priest of Ptah… the _sem_ priest too by the look of it.  The short cloth covering hips and thighs was crimson instead of black and he did not have the length of flowing, sheer linen draped about his shoulders that Alex had become so used to.  Instead he wore the ceremonial panther skin draped over one shoulder and his eyes were lined with kohl. 

“You.”  Alex knew he probably looked as hungry as he suddenly felt – the haziness of the air around Imhotep told him his eyes were dilated at the very least.  “I know you.”  Okay, so it wasn’t the smoothest thing he’d ever said, but it was true and that seemed like the most important thing right now.

His host looked a little like he’d just been struck hard in the stomach – or possibly had the wind knocked out of him – but Alex’s statement helped to shake him out of it at least a little.  “Yes, I would imagine you do.  I used to teach the young ones in Sekhmet’s service – how to read and to write and to calculate sizes and distance.”  Stepping inside properly, he lifted the sacred skin from his shoulders and draped it carefully over the rack designed to hold it.  “It was to me Ankhesenamun sent you last night.”

“Yes,” Alex answered breezily, coming in from the balcony with his sheet dragging the floor and slipping lower down his torso.  “I remember.”

Imhotep had his back to the boy, removing the heavy golden bracers from his forearms (with some difficulty) and setting them atop the panther skin.  “Good.  That will certainly save some time.  What did you do to so rouse her fury?”

“I told her no.”

That was not the answer expected, obviously, because it startled a rough laugh from a throat that Alex would bet anything wasn’t very used to the sound.  It made him smile back, though his host couldn’t see; it made him feel like there was a small sun that had taken up residence between his lungs. 

“I doubt she has ever heard such a word applied to her,” Imhotep answered, turning back to his young guest and licking over his lips before lifting his gaze to meet the boy’s.  “It is a miracle you lived long enough for me to set you to rights.”  But the expression on the high priest’s face was shifting quickly from enjoyment to puzzlement.  He stepped forward, closing the remaining distance between them and Alex felt like the ground had begun to move under his feet.

When Imhotep had to catch him under his elbows to keep him from falling, the puzzlement had become outright concern and Alex found himself wanting to reach up and smooth out the lines it had etched into his face.  With no warning, Imhotep leaned forward and inhaled deeply through his nose against the place on Alex’s neck where the pomegranate juice had begun to stain his skin pink. 

“I smell no poison…”  And that _should_ have been a sobering thought – Alex’s history lessons had been littered with the names of pharaohs and their families willing to kill each other over power or prestige – but instead he found himself fixated on the soft puff of hot breath against his throat and hummed his satisfaction.  But when he turned his head to scrape lips and teeth against the corner of a sharp jaw, Imhotep froze. 

Before Alex had time to think about what was happening – forget reacting at all – one large hand had lifted to hold his entire jaw in a grip that was both gentle and entirely unyielding.  It let Imhotep hold him in exactly the right place to watch how the light hit his eyes as his head was turned.  It let him press down on the soft skin high on his throat and then watch how long it took for the skin to fade back from white.

Those two things apparently told _him_ a lot more than they were telling Alex because he had started laughing so hard his shoulders shook, though he’d done well at keeping the sound entirely silent.  “Thank the gods – It is only the hemp and poppy from the _shepenet_.”  There was mirth in his voice and in the soft chuckle that followed it, but there was relief in the hand that came up to clasp the back of his neck.  The touch was familiar in a way Alex couldn’t place, like déjà vu he recognized but could not name.  “Most of the acolytes have built up a tolerance by your age.  Poor kitten, I would have cut the dose in half if I had known.”

“A tolerance?”  That confused and rather upset Alex.  He hadn’t spent a _lot_ of time around drugs in his life, but even he knew enough that substances like hemp and poppy were not things lots of people built up tolerances too.  “What the hell are they doing that they need _that_ much for?”  _He_ certainly thought it was a fair question, but it sobered Imhotep immediately.

“It is true, then.  You _are_ still an innocent.”

“Hah!” Alex barked, the laughter quickly trailing off into a derisive snort.  “Not so much anymore, no.  But up until recently I … yeah, yeah I was.”  When he looked back up at his host, there was pain, sorrow and a bitter empathy written across his face. 

“I am sorry, Alaexandros.  You should have been spared that kind of abuse.”

“Um.”  Alex blinked at him a few times and then sort of sideways squinted.  “Thanks?”  He was starting to get the distinct feeling that they were having two different conversations entirely.  “I think?”

Imhotep merely shook his head, something like fondness tugging upward on reluctant lips.  Alex remembered what that mouth tasted like and he wanted to try it with the addition of the smile, but as he leaned forward he found a hand (the one he would have sworn had been around his jaw just a second ago) pressed flat and firm against his chest.

“ _That_ will not be necessary.”

“And why not?”  Alex had apparently inherited more of his mother’s vey British indignation than he’d thought, because even as the demand left his lips it _sounded_ like her.

Imhotep had not been prepared for _that_ in the slightest.  “Because it is not – I will not – it simply isn’t.”  Alex _knew_ he hadn’t been because he’d never before heard him _stumble_ like that.  It was incredibly endearing.

“That’s not a very good answer,” he retorted, calling him out on it with a crooked grin.

“Perhaps not, but you are too inebriated for anything better.  Go back to sleep, Alaexandros.”  Alex felt himself turned and nudged gently toward the bed.  “You will be safe here until the plants leave your system.”

Alex found he couldn’t really argue with that logic, but – and really for no other reason than he didn’t give in to anything very gracefully – he obeyed on his own terms, releasing his hold on the sheet so that it pooled on the floor and left him walking back to sprawl over Imhotep’s bed as naked as he’d been born.  A muffled, distant part of him recognized as he sank into the soft cushions that it could backfire on him in a really bad way, but it was overruled by the smugly satisfied voice that said only ‘worth it’. 

He wasn’t sure why, but the feeling of willingly falling asleep in Imhotep’s wide, warm bed was definitely more important just then.

 

  * \- -



 

The sound of that moan was going to haunt him until the end of his days.

Imhotep had no delusions about the state of his life or his soul; his earliest memories were of the nurses in the temple telling each other ‘that one was _born_ angry’.  Well, no, that wasn’t _strictly_ true, but those were the earliest memories he allowed himself to think about, which was essentially the same thing.

In either case, emotions like fury, hatred, helplessness, fear – they had been his longest and most faithful friends.  He had been the first common-born man to rise so far – the first man at all to rise so quickly – and though the throng of fish-mouthed fools at court praised and marveled at his virtuous ambition, he knew better.  It wasn’t ambition that had driven him so far beyond the scope of mortal man; it was revenge.

Thothmes had lit his innocence on fire before he lost his first tooth.  All that was left now were ashes, but they had fueled a fire so much greater – one that had propelled him here.  And in all his years and all his work and all his careful planning and strategy, there had only been one distraction. 

It was the worst-kept secret among the men and women who dedicated their lives to the crafts and service of their gods, but there was within the very foundation of their orders an apostasy of the worst kind.  In its beginnings – as with most things – Imhotep could see that the intention had been good and pure.  It only made sense to pair the temples’ young ones with wise teachers who could take the place of parents and shape them individually rather than leave them as simply one face in a herd.  And he was also willing to acknowledge that even now, the practice itself was not evil in the hands of those who had honor and integrity.  There was nothing wrong with pleasure, nothing wrong with companionship and there were many different models for successful relationships that had nothing to do with the binary nonsense the foreign merchants always spouted. 

But in the hands of small and evil souls, the power to so twist and warp and pollute what should be good and whole and free… it made him sick.

He had participated in the system during his tutelage – it was the most efficient means to rise within the temple and he hadn’t understood until it was much too late what kind of price it demanded.  He hated the practice – for what it took from him and what it took from others – but the majority of his age mates did not share in his distaste.  For most, they simply saw it as something they should be able to reap the benefits from because they had taken the abuse of their elders and now it was their turn.  They had laughed at him, even coined the newest term for their personal acolytes in mockery of his argument; apostates for their apostasy.  He had always firmly refused to take one of his own and had never even been tempted.

Except once, three years ago.

He had always known of the bastard prince’s existence.  Nefertiri’s mother had trusted him above all others and so it had been on his advice that the boy be hidden with the other mercenary orphans among Sekhmet’s brood.  He had kept an eye on him in a distant, background sort of way.  Those who became too curious or stumbled too close to the truth were quietly eliminated – that sort of thing.  He had enjoyed teaching him when he had been small – a sharp and voracious mind was always welcome in a student, especially when the teacher himself had been so young then – but he learned so much more quickly than most and was on to the other tutors in less than a year.

Beyond that, Imhotep honestly hadn’t given him much thought at all.  His ascension to high priest had come on suddenly and with a deluge of new responsibilities.  He continued to do his duty by his promise to the boy’s mother and grandmother, but that was all.

Three years ago – the first new year celebration he had presided over as Ptah’s only high priest – Imhotep had been ceremonially invited to a new facet of Sekhmet’s traditional pacification ritual.  There was an acolyte of the temple, they said, who could soothe the rage of even the wildest beasts.  Imhotep had scoffed – louder when they told him there was no beer involved.  Impossible, he’d said, but he’d gone anyway.  Mostly because to decline would cause tensions between their temples and he had too much stacked against him already, but also partly because he wanted to see this new sorcery.

He had nearly swallowed his own tongue when the master of ceremonies announced the name of this acolyte to those assembled on the dais high above the courtyard. 

The priests and priestesses around him compared Alaexandros to Helios as he stepped into the sunlight opposite a wild mare.  Golden hair and fair skin made him a rarity even among the abandoned children of the Greek mercenaries.  It lent a certain romance to the stories which claimed that Re’s brother ruled over the far away island nation’s people; having a boy among them they could claim the son of a foreign god would add prestige to a temple that had been mostly neglected during Thothmes’ reign. 

The mare had been large and dark, beautiful in the deadly way the massive Ethiopian horses always were.  She had started wild enough to worry even experienced horse masters, but fell swiftly under the boy’s spell.  It would have been enough for the crowd when she let him touch her nose, but to have him vault up onto her back and ride her around the courtyard drove them wild.  Imhotep had been impressed, but a horse was at heart a prey animal and the process of their domestication had been known for many hundreds of years.  It was a talent, to be certain, but not necessarily a divine one.

A pack of jackals came next.

Then a male Ibex.

Three sacred asps followed suit.

Then an ostrich with beautiful plumage and a deadly kick.

By the time the penultimate trial was set forth in the form of a mother river horse – who, within the span of mere moments, lay down in the dust and allowed the boy to scratch at her vulnerable underbelly – Imhotep had been left able only to stare in awe.  But when he saw the final task – a great Barbary lion bloodied and furious from the botched hunt that brought him here – he had tried to intervene.  Surely it was no credit to their goddess for the boy to be eaten alive on her day of peace.

Sekhmet’s high priestess had been unmoved.  Surely Maahes would not allow one of his sons to displease his mother; if the boy was truly divinely touched, there would be no harm.  If he was not, then only Maahes could despoil his mother’s day without fear.  Besides, one of his own priests had been quick to inform him, this particular lion wasn’t going to live very long anyway.

And so Imhotep had watched, captivated by interest and fear, as an almost fourteen-year-old Alaexandros approached the great beast without any hint of hesitation.  He watched as snarling growls became annoyed grumbling became huffing resignation became quiet acceptance.  He watched the boy embrace the lion’s massive head, pressing noses bridge to bridge and murmuring something no one else could hear.  He watched this skinny golden youth pull a wicked blade from his belt and end the lion’s suffering with one sure stroke.

He had not been the only one to witness these things, but he had been the only one to see him use his clean forearm to brush away wetness from his eyes before turning to face the cheering crowd.

That day had left an indelible impression on Imhotep; it had also left him with a serious problem.

The boy had been kept in ignorance of his ancestry for a reason; he was not to blame.  Even those who saw to his care knew nothing, had possessed no malicious intent in showcasing him so.  But despite no ill motive, Imhotep knew that the more interest those in the social elite took in this boy – which was bound to happen after a display like this – the greater the risk of discovery.  Alaexandros’ life was at risk, as was the stability of their world.  They could ill afford a civil war with the kingdoms so recently unified and the son of a god would make for a wonderful figurehead if he fell into the wrong, ambitious hands.

He had two choices that remained to him if he were to protect the boy.  He could take him as his own apostate, which would give him the ability to keep him out of sight until the worst of the initial fuss died down and then the authority to keep him from such trouble in the future.  The only other course would be to send him far to the north with one of the mercenary bands.

Imhotep had wrestled hard with this decision.  The life of a mercenary was a hard and often short one, but it was the most freedom anyone could hope to have in this life.  Being an apostate did not have nearly so high a mortality rate and he liked to think that he could do better than he himself had experienced, but…

He had chosen to send the boy with the mercenaries and all it took was one morning to remember _why._  

As soon as that damned boy settled back into bed, Imhotep turned on his heel and went to stand on the balcony.  His knuckles were white where he gripped the railing, his head dropped between his shoulders until his chin touched his chest.  His own pulse rushed in his ears and his breath came hissed between clenched teeth, but _still_ he knew the exact moment when Alaexandros had fallen asleep once more.  The wretched prince had been tempting enough before, when it was just the promise of what was to come peeking through the last vestiges of childhood roundness, but now?

Three years among the mercenaries had taken all of the softness from him.  He was not broad – that would not come for another few years yet – but there was speed and strength written in the lines of his wiry frame.  It was temptation enough on its own, but to see the fulfillment of all that youthful promise so unguarded in his rooms, wrapped in linen that smelled of his own skin – to have it offered so sweetly in the easy haze of the hemp and poppy still running rampant in his veins…

Arousal was a human response to need in the same way as hunger and thirst.  Imhotep had always known this and had no shame in it, but it had become less and less a driving force as he’d gotten older, more powerful – as his body acclimatized itself to the solitary life his mission imposed upon him.  It had been a long time indeed since he had felt it as more than a passing morning nuisance – never before had this kind of desire stoked _liquid fire_ in his belly. 

Imhotep did not know yet how Alaexandros had come to be back in Men-nefer, but he knew that he was somehow again under the ‘protection’ of the priestesses of Sekhmet.  There was much to be done, so much more now that needed his immediate attention, but he could not simply will away the ache that throbbed – hard and heavy – between his thighs. 

With a low growl, he shoved himself back from the railing and paced along its length.  Motion had always soothed him, but with each pass he found his eyes drawn to the contrast of pink skin against white linen – to the boy that had once come so close to derailing him from an absolute within his own moral code… to the mouth that had come so close to moving against his own.  It was foolish to torment himself this way, he knew.  He _knew_ it would lead only to madness… but there were no options left now that Ankhesenamun had found him, so obviously knew who he was. 

There _was_ no right answer here and that made the high priest feel closer to breaking than he had in twenty-five years.  With a smothered cry that mixed equal parts desire and despair, Imhotep flung himself back against the balcony wall, hands tugging and lifting at crimson cloth until he could take himself in hand.  Even that much sensation was enough at this point to steal his breath. 

He tried valiantly to clear his mind, to focus on the sensations of his touch alone and lose himself in the pleasure without an object.  It had always been his way of satisfying this requirement when alone – no outside stimulation necessary – but no matter how hard he tried, flashes of memory slipped in under his guard.  The sun shimmering in golden hair, the splatter of fresh red blood on smooth pale skin, the trail the pomegranate’s juice blazed down his throat, the arch and play of tight muscles as he dropped the covering of the sheet and walked away, the wet promise of his mouth as he’d leaned in to kiss him… that gods-cursed _moan._  Each time he slipped up, the memory sent a bolt of lightning down his spine, leaving his hips jerking hard into his own fist.  It soon became more than he could bear and memory became fantasy.

That mouth – always and forever that mouth – only this time bruised and swollen from kisses; a streak of blood over the bottom lip.  Whose blood it did not matter… 

Those arms straining against his hands where he pinned bony wrists to his bed…

The smooth, soft heat of all that skin pressed against his own – the cold stone of his ceremonial seat a stark contrast to the body straddling his lap and rocking their hips together…

So much – so many desires he had not even known he possessed – flashed behind his eyes as his hand moved faster, jaw clenched tight against the sounds of the release he chased so fiercely.  He arched his back away from the wall and sank to his knees, thighs beginning to shake as his spine undulated and his head fell back.  The heart was a cruel, conniving thing, saving the fantasy with the most power – that which was most damning – for its piece de resistance.  The sound of that _moan_ echoed again inside his mind, only this time it was followed by a single word steeped in need, desire… devotion.

_Imhotep_  

His _name_ cried out like that was his great undoing; he fell forward on a choked, sobbing moan, teeth bared in a silent snarl as he braced himself on one hand and came so hard he couldn’t see.  Again and again he felt the impact of all his muscles constricting in waves more powerful than he was prepared for.  It was overwhelming – it was terrifying.  But as his vision slowly returned and Imhotep saw the mess he’d made (blood dripping from his lip to mix with tears and seed there on the natural stone floor) he collapsed to one side to catch his breath and knew he wanted nothing more than to know that feeling again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting in this segment, we're going to see more of Alex's long-term struggles with his past traumatic experiences and those yet to come. Please note that not everyone handles trauma in the same way. I've modeled Alex's arc on the experiences of different people with his personality type; it is not at all meant to be disrespectful or dismissive of the awful impact of rape and non-consent, simply descriptive of a kind of response and coping that doesn't get a whole lot of mainstream attention.

When Alex woke next, the skies were grey and dark the way they only ever were in the last hour before dawn.  His limbs were sluggish and his body was stiff like he’d slept for too long in one position.  It was a struggle to push himself upright and sit on the side of the bed; the chill in the air made him pull the sheet up and over his shoulders again.  One hand held the edges closed over his chest while the other lifted to rub the sleep out of one eye and push shaggy hair back out of his face.  He knew where he was – which was a small mercy – but the rest of it was all a little bit mixed up in his head.

“Here.”  The voice from behind him startled Alex, but the jump in his pulse never quite made it to true fear.  Knowing that it was Imhotep’s voice meant that there were very real reasons to; he knew this and did not dispute the facts, he simply did not feel the emotion.  “This will help.”  Rather than dwelling on it now, he pushed himself back up to sit cross-legged on the bed and face the priest – or, more accurately, to sit cross-legged on the bed and stare suspiciously at the steaming clay mug being held out to him.

“Be easy.  It is only _buni,_ I promise.”  The reassurance was offered wryly, with hints of a smile around one corner of Imhotep’s mouth.  So Alex’s suspicion _hadn’t_ gone unnoticed, then.  ‘Buni’ wasn’t a word Alex recognized immediately, but the first breath of unmistakable bittersweet heat brought everything sharply into focus.

_Coffee._  

He’d been using the wrong frame of reference to try and analyze the word; ‘buni’ was the Ethiopian term – which, since according to Uncle Jonathan (in one of his long-winded rants about something completely mundane) it had _come_ from there originally, made perfect sense.  He just hadn’t been ready to think like that.  At first, Alex only clutched the handle-less mug in both hands, savoring its warmth and breathing in the smell that had defined ‘morning’ his entire life.  It was thicker than he was used to – darker, too – but tempered with what tasted like fresh heifer milk and honey.  It was delicious and within the first three sips he could feel the muscles in his neck ease up a little.  Everything became just that bit less fuzzy and the idea of movement was no longer _entirely_ abhorrent. 

He watched over the rim of his cup as Imhotep retrieved another mug (presumably his own) and moved to mirror his position on the opposite end of the bed.  There was silence at first, not unwelcome in its own right but to Alex it felt as though it were growing increasingly weighted.  He took one more drink of his coffee and decided to simply plunge on ahead.

“Thank you.”  They were only two words, but still Imhotep looked at him blankly, as though somehow confused by them.  “I don’t really know why Ankhesenamun sent me here, but I would lay down good money that it wasn’t so you could patch up a head wound.”  He shrugged, as awkward as everyone in his family was when discussing anything resmbling emotions or less-than-casual gratitude.  “You could have been really awful and you weren’t, so um.  Thanks.”

Imhotep waved a hand in dismissal now that he seemed to have caught on.  “Your thanks are accepted, but gratitude is unnecessary.”  It was an oddly formal response, but Alex was used to that.  No matter who he addressed, Imhotep _always_ had an air of stiff formality – like he had a script for everything and stuck to it religiously.  Alex had never heard him veer from it except once and those had been… extenuating circumstances.  “I knew your mother well.  I knew your grandmother better.  I made a promise to keep you from harm.  This was simply another step in its fulfillment.”

“I… see,” Alex lied, though his tone was rather clear on his confusion.  He didn’t understand any of this – Imhotep had said _nothing_ about a hidden prince he was looking out for – but he understood enough of everything else to know that the wrong questions could ruin everything.  This was a better opening into the high priest’s sphere of influence than he’d expected; he wasn’t about to blow it now. 

“No,” Imhotep answered, shaking his head with a small, rueful smile.  “I do not suppose you would see.”  At least he acknowledged it – and without being rude, even.  That alone was enough to surprise Alex, who was still waiting for the arrogant condescension he’d come to associate with his former captor.  “I apologize.  I would explain more, but for now it is safest if you know as little as possible.”

Alex chewed that over for a moment.  On the one hand, he had some righteous indignation to wrestle with; it was _his_ life, he deserved to know what the hell was going on.  On the other hand, the bits he _had_ managed to put together made him nervous enough already.  It was entirely possible that this was one of those things where the more he knew, the less he’d be able to sleep at night.  Imhotep wisely let him consider in silence, seeming to recognize at least something of the internal struggle.  Which was ironic, since it was the memory of words the high priest might never remember saying that finally made Alex’s decision for him.

_I will trust you with this._  

Alex would do no less.  “Alright,” he conceded, heaving a small sigh and draining the last of his coffee in three large gulps.  “I trust you.”  He saw Imhotep’s eyes widen and added quickly, “I mean I’m still alive, yeah?  You must be doing _something_ right.”  It worked – he could see the priest relax, see his mouth twist into an unwilling smile even though he tried to hide it in his own drink.

“Indeed.  Unfortunately I am running out of methods to do so while Ankhesenamun takes an interest in you.”  Imhotep was silent for a moment after that, staring down at his hands in a way Alex knew meant he was deep in thought.  “I do not know her intentions in sending you to me the way she did.  Intending you for my apostate would be the obvious answer, but my distaste for the entire practice is so well-known… unless she believes that something about you would cause me to make one exception.”  Watching him think out loud was something Alex had never gotten to do before.  It was unexpectedly fascinating, with the final ‘lightbulb’ moment inspiring several entirely irrational responses. 

“She thinks that you would use me to hurt the royal family?”  Out of all of them, Alex _thought_ he’d picked the safest one, but judging by the sharp, suspicious way Imhotep’s gaze jerked up to meet his own, he’d apparently missed the mark.  “What?” he argued before any accusation could be made.  “She called me the bastard son of a princess.  You asked if I was Alaexandros, son of Nefertiri.  I’m young, not stupid.”

“Indeed.”  Imhotep’s answer was minimal, but he visibly relaxed and Alex thought he might even have detected some hint of impressed amusement lurking in the otherwise neutral expression.    The priest bought himself a moment more to think while he unfolded his limbs and took Alex’s empty cup along with his own across the room to refill them from a clay jug whose handle was made by a stylized lioness.  He was silent still as he returned and settled back to his former seat.  Alex, following along, accepted his second cup without comment and waited.  “I believe you are right, Alaexandros.  She is far better at this game than her predecessor.”  And for some reason he sounded… sad about that.  “You will not be safe except under my direct protection.”

Alex had a pretty good idea what that meant – Imhotep had prepared him thoroughly in case he ended up stuck in one of the temples for an extended length of time – but he didn’t interrupt.

“I will have to make an offering to the high priestess of Sekhmet to smooth over ruffled feathers, but I know no other way to protect you than as my apostate.  Ankhesenamun has placed her pieces well.  Either I take part in something I despise or I fail to keep the only promise I ever made.  I am sorry, but until I can secure passage for you somewhere far from the Lower Kingdom, you will have to stay here as my apostate.”

Evidently he misinterpreted Alex’s dry stare over his apology for some kind of concern or mistrust, for he was quick to reassure him.  “I promise you I have no interest in taking what is not freely given.”  That part Alex had to laugh at, considering all the evidence he had to the contrary, but Imhotep technically hadn’t done that yet and he at least didn’t seem offended that Alex laughed.  “You will be _safe_ here, Alaexandros; in all ways.  This I swear.” 

It was better than he’d hoped for.  As Imhotep’s apostate, Alex would not only be _allowed_ to be with him at all times – it was _expected_ that he would be.  If there was truly a chance to avert disaster – and in spite of himself, Alex found that he trusted Ma’at to give them at least that – this would be the best position from which to do it.

“I trust you,” he repeated, but this time made no attempt to detract from the weight of that statement.  “Tell me what I need to know; tell me what needs to be done.  So long as I know those, I’ll be fine.”

Imhotep didn’t answer right away, instead holding Alex’s gaze for a long, silent consideration.  In the end, however, his response was simple.

“Very well.  Here is how we shall begin.”

 

  * \- -



 

Those first few weeks were a continuing exercise in expanding his Ancient Egyptian vocabulary and putting out small fires _everywhere._  

Not _literally,_ of course – though honestly Alex sometimes thought literal fires would have been easier to manage – but honestly it was like Imhotep could go nowhere, do _nothing_ without mortally offending _someone._  How he had survived this long was a mystery – how he’d climbed to the rank he had was _plainly_ nothing short of a miracle. 

The beginning had been easy enough – though that in and of itself had irritated Imhotep to no end – Sekhmet’s high priestess had not even demanded recompense for what he had been so sure would be seen as a form of theft. 

“They are all too busy being overjoyed that I cannot abolish a practice I partake in,” Imhotep had spat, knocking a week’s worth of work from his desk with one frustrated sweep of his arm.  “Jackals!  Cowards!  _Fools._ ”  Alex had merely stood in one corner of the room with his arms folded over his chest, a silent observer.  It certainly hadn’t been the first temper tantrum he’d borne witness to (though it was so far the _mildest,_ considering the only casualties were a few bits of broken ceramics and an upturned inkwell) and he was sure _even then_ it was not to be the last.  He’d waited until the high priest had stormed off to his workshop – the one place Alex was _not_ expected to follow – and then cleaned up the mess and reorganized the desk.

Later, once he’d calmed down _significantly,_ Imhotep had been impressed.  Sort of.

“There is no need for you to follow in my wake with a sack and broom, Alaexandros.”  It was the gruffness that had made Alex fairly certain there was at least a _little_ embarrassment involved.  “The temple _has_ slaves.  You are not one of them.”

That assertion had stolen his breath for a moment – and it was another few in addition to the first before he’d managed to get a tight rein on the conflicting impulses to laugh and cry – but in the end, Alex had managed only to shrug.

“I am serious, young one.  I do not need a nursemaid.”

Alex wanted _so badly_ to argue that point, since that was in essence his entire role here, but the dry and easy way Imhotep had accepted his blunt arguments and sarcastic quips in the realms of the dead did not exist here.  “How many of them can read?”  Thus, he opted for the more neutral argument.

“What?”  The high priest had turned from his contemplation of the missives in his hand to stare hard at Alex.  “What relevance is that to their ability to perform menial tasks?”

“Normally none,” Alex had conceded, shifting a little uncomfortably under the weight of that stare.  “But before you punished it this afternoon, your desk was organized to a slightly unhealthy degree.”

Imhotep had scoffed.  “And so it was organized upon my return.  What is your point?”

“I can read.” 

There had been a moment of awkward silence as the whole concept was laid bare, made painfully obvious and then mulled over.

“I would have been content to reorganize it myself, once the mess had been cleaned.”  Imhotep’s seemingly stubborn refusal to acknowledge the real point brought a surge of frustration to the back of Alex’s throat, but there had been an odd defensiveness to the sullen tone that made him take a deep breath and proceed more gently than he really wanted to. 

“A slave who cannot read would have a hard time deciphering what is and isn’t mess with ink splattered over everything,” he began.  “A slave who disposed of something that was actually important would be whipped at best – at worst he would be killed _._ ” 

“I am not so unfair a master!”  But there had been a flash of dawning horror in Imhotep’s eyes before his quick defense.  It had been enough for Alex not to push any further; his point had been made. 

“Then I won’t worry so much about making a mistake when I sort it all out the next time.”  Which should have closed the conversation – _would_ have closed the conversation – but Alex had a… problem resisting the impulse to run his mouth sometimes.

“I don’t really mind a good whipping, you see,” he’d found himself adding as he kicked off his sandals and climbed into bed, “but being dead is just dull.”

The utter and complete _silence_ that had followed had been enough to send Alex into dreams with a grin on his face. 

And _that_ had certainly taken some getting used to, the bizarre sleeping arrangements.  Rather than risk creating the suspicion bringing in a pallet or assigning Alex different rooms would have, Imhotep had simply waved him in the direction of his own bed the first night Alex was awake (and sober) enough to ask about it.  It was certainly comfortable – and large enough for three or four people to sleep in, let alone just two – but despite Alex’s acceptance of the arrangement without complaint, he might as well have been sleeping alone. 

He always fell asleep while Imhotep read or wrote by lamplight and always woke to the sounds of breakfast being brought in.  If it hadn’t been for the indent in the sheets where another body had been, Alex would have thought he didn’t sleep at all.  He’d done some (very primitive) maths on it in his head once, about a week and a half in; given about how long it usually took him to fall asleep and the fact that the indent was almost always cold when he woke up, there was no way Imhotep was getting more than five hours of sleep each night – sometimes probably closer to three.  Alex – with his head full of the wisdoms of modern medical science – was absolutely positively _certain_ this wasn’t healthy in any respect, especially long term.  Bringing it _up_ , however… well, there just wasn’t a casual way to do it and it never really seemed like a good time.

Once the initial fuss over Imhotep taking an apostate died down, their days became very routine very quickly.  Mornings were spent in sacred rituals to Ptah and Sekhmet, then in a series of what sometimes seemed like _endless_ meetings.  Late afternoons, when the day was hottest, meant respite in the shade or one of the temple baths.  Most of the time, these hours were lessons; Imhotep took very seriously the ‘education’ part of his apostasy.  Alex had dreaded these times at first – he hadn’t ever been a fan of organized schooling and the possibility of rousing Imhotep’s temper if he did not catch on quickly enough made him jumpy.  Over time, however, he learned to look forward to those hours most of all.

Imhotep proved to be a gifted storyteller and so long as Alex showed genuine _interest_ in what he was trying to explain, he was incredibly patient – and persistent – in trying different avenues until the idea finally ‘clicked’ and stuck.  He was what Evie would have called a ‘true Renaissance man’, who knew at least _something_ about anything Alex ever asked him.  And he was remarkably open to Alex’s own ideas as well, though Alex was very careful to hedge around possibly modern thought lest he cause a breakdown in the space-time continuum or something. 

He’d only slipped up once, when they were talking about the calendar and the division of time.

“The twelve month system makes sense,” he’d said, chewing his lip and frowning into the middle distance.  “But that only gives you 360 days a year, which is why a strictly lunar calendar is going to go out of sync with the star movements within a few years.” 

There had been something unmistakably proud in the small smile on Imhotep’s face – Alex _absolutely_ blamed that for his sudden need to show off, to impress.  “Exactly so, but how would you address this problem?”

It was a good teaching style for the most part; Imhotep often asked him to try and reach the answers himself using the information at hand, leading him along to the answer instead of simply handing it over.  But Alex had felt his insides twist a little at the evidence that his teacher was pleased with him.  He wanted more of it.  “Well, the five days of the sacred month at the end of each year fixed a lot of it,” he began.

“Good,” Imhotep had praised.  “But not all?”

“No,” Alex had answered.  “It takes longer, but the calendar is still going to become more and more inaccurate over time.”  The system of dates and measurements he had grown up with still seemed the most natural to Alex, but they had been designed around a climate and seasonal rotation that was next to meaningless here.  “I mean, you’d have to have someone better with numbers check my math, but if every four years you make the sacred month six days instead of five, it should fix it, I think, and then you wouldn’t have to start the whole thing over every time someone new became Pharaoh.”

And he’d been right – he _knew_ he’d been right because Ptolemy had tried to implement the exact system some thousand years in the relative future and then the Emperor Augustus _had_ implemented it two hundred years after that – but the look of shock and slowly dawning awe that stole over Imhotep’s face as he did the mental calculations required to check the ‘guess’ had made Alex wish immediately that he could take it all back.

He had gotten neither the pride nor pleasure he’d been after, only a steady increase in polite distance that Alex _hated_ but never entirely understood.

Every three or four days, Imhotep would dismiss the mass of people who sought his attention shortly before the noon hour.  Alex would be sent on an errand, either to the markets or one of the city officials or one of the temples – occasionally even to the royal palace itself.  His white wrap and sigil collar of brass and malachite (able to easily go on and off over his head, he’d checked) announced to the world that he was about Ptah’s business and allowed him access to any part of the city unmolested.  It was a chance to be free of the temple’s often smothering atmosphere – to be around life and people and to really stretch his legs.

Those nights were always the most comfortable.  Alex would return successful to find Imhotep fresh-faced from the baths, loose and lazy.  They hardly ever spoke during those evenings, but it was never awkward or tense. 

Time passed – and aside from the time Alex spent handling those upset by Imhotep’s manner (which oddly seemed to happen less and less often as the weeks went on) he found that overall he enjoyed this life.  By the end of his third month, his face was so well known among the places he went frequently on Imhotep’s business that guards, merchants, servants and nobles alike would often greet him brightly by name.  By the end of his fifth, he was so flawlessly fluent in the languages he had to use that he would often catch himself _thinking_ in Greek or Egyptian (which he now knew to call Kemet) or Hebrew rather than his own native English.  By the end of his seventh, he’d stopped waiting for Imhotep to turn on him, to revert to the harsh and unforgiving captor of a time that had begun to seem more and more like a nightmare. 

There were bumps along the way, of course.  Imhotep’s continuous insistence upon rigid polite distance even in conversation drove Alex steadily insane, especially because there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to its existence.  They would undertake a project and get into a rhythm of work and talk that seemed to make him forget to hold himself apart, but then he’d ruffle Alex’s hair or grip the back of his neck – or they would sit through an interminable meeting and catch matching ‘kill me now’ expressions on each other’s faces and break into grins more suited to scheming boys than men of serious position.  No matter what the original scenario, Imhotep would always catch himself and reinstate the enforced distance – often overcompensating and spending the next few days saying nothing beyond short, clipped orders.

It was frustrating, but Alex didn’t see the danger in it until the month before the sacred festivals of the new year.

 

  * \- -



 

“Alaexandros, Alaexandros!”

The shouts of his name were enough to make Alex jump.  He was quick enough on his feet so as not to drop the jar of sweet oil he had been tasked to inspect, but he paused only long enough to offer swift apologies to the merchant – who waved him off with a grandmotherly tut and shoo – before spinning to find the source of the commotion.

It was Eitan, the former slave whom Imhotep had put to work as quartermaster for the temple complex.  He ran into the market square, dodging through the crowds of people before gripping Alex intently, gasping for breath.

“Easy, Eitan, easy.”  It was second nature now for Alex to revert to Hebrew when conversing with Eitan and the others; he’d learned early on that it put them more at ease and he wasn’t about to turn down friends anywhere he could make them.  “Catch your breath and tell me.”

“Not.  Enough.  Time.”  There was an urgency in him, not only from his tone but in the temporal immediacy of the syntax he chose.  It inspired a cold knot of dread in the pit of Alex’s stomach.  “It is your master.”  Alex had given up months ago on trying to explain to the Hebrew slaves and former-slaves among his acquaintance that Imhotep was not his master, but even now the term made him cringe.

It did not, however, ease the blossoming of that dread into full-blown fear.

“Imhotep?” Alex questioned needlessly.  “The high priest?  What of him, what has happened?”

“An attempt on his life.  The surgeons have been sent for but you know how he feels about them.”

Alex did know.  “Where is he, Eitan?”  His own panic – which he was absolutely refusing to think about – aside, he had to get there before the physicians or there would be terrible consequences all around.

“In his workshop.  Go!  Go, I will follow.”

Alex needed no further encouragement than that, tucking his arms into his sides and using his knowledge of the city’s less-traveled routes to make the journey swifter.  There would be apologies to make later, but he felt the press of time like he had not since he woke up in this place.  Delays were unacceptable.  By the time he flew through the temple’s back hallways and down to the far corner of the rearmost courtyard where the high priest kept his forge and kiln, Alex was well and truly winded, but high enough on adrenaline that it didn’t slow him down.

The place was a wreck.  Shattered glass and fractured clay littered the benches, shelves and floor; smoldering cloth and leather lay strewn among the bodies.  There were five of them in matching white robes.  It reminded Alex with a wave of nausea about the assassination of Caesar.  The sixth was alive, but when Alex got to him, he _almost_ wished he wasn’t. 

“Alaexandros…”  The _relief_ in Imhotep’s voice struck Alex hard, but he couldn’t think about that ache in his chest when confronted with the current gory reality.  Somehow during the fight for his life, Imhotep must have gotten in the way of a spilling vat of molten glass.  His left arm was _covered,_ coated from halfway up his forearm all the way to the shoulder joint and a little beyond.  Alex was _horrified._  He could see melted flesh and charred muscle beneath the slowly clarifying glass.  “Alaexandros.”  The first flash of pale bone drained the color from his face and Alex felt lightheaded.  “Alaexandros!”

The sharpness of Imhotep’s voice was enough to yank him from the brink of total uselessness, though he softened immediately once Alex had looked up into his face.  “Khalex, please.  I need your help.”

Things were _really_ bad if Imhotep had resorted to the intimate diminutive of the shorter name he’d tried _months_ ago to get him to use.

_Alaexandros is such a mouthful.  Alex is fine._  

The echo of his own voice felt surreal, as did the hazy question floating around in his mind about whether this is what shock felt like.

“ _Please._ ”

“Right.  Yes.  Sorry, I’m sorry; I’m here.”

“Good.”  Imhotep’s voice was level, but very obviously strained.  “I need you to bar the door.  If those vultures get their claws into me – “

“I know, I know.  Okay.  Hang on.”

Alex pushed himself back to his feet (when had he stopped standing?) and pushed the smaller stone table and two of the heavier workbenches against the door. 

“Good.  Thank you.  Now come here, please.”

The laugh this inspired in Alex came out high and a little bit hysterical, but he obeyed.  “Only you would remember your manners while your arm was being melted down.” 

“Manners make man,” he retorted, forcing a small smile as he finally had the perfect opportunity to shoot back something Alex had spouted at him _months_ ago.

“Your memory for minutiae is just not normal, you know that, right?” 

“Neither am I.  Now, listen; in a moment, this glass is going to crack open.  When that happens, I need you to pull me up and settle me over there with the injured arm submerged in the water trough.  Can you do that?”

“Crack open?  But how is that – “

“Hush, Khalex.  Please.  I will explain everything later but for now I need you to follow my instructions and not waste time on questions.”  Alex hesitated for just the briefest moment before nodding sharply once.

“I trust you.” 

He may have imagined it, but for a split second Alex would have _sworn_ he saw warmth in Imhotep’s dark eyes.

“Alright.  On my signal.  One, two, three, now!”

As he counted, Alex watched in amazement as the glass physically frosted over and began to crack.  Imhotep’s signal came right as the pieces fell away and Alex grunted under the effort of hauling him up with his good arm over Alex’s shoulders.  Three careful strides across the room (avoiding bodies) and he settled Imhotep as gently as he could next to the trough.  He didn’t want to think about the fact that once the arm was submerged, the water became crystal clear and grew a very thin layer of ice at the top.

The question was on the tip of his tongue, but remembering his promise he swallowed it and the high priest looking up at him – waiting – slumped a little in relief. 

“Alaexandros!”  The shout was still some distance away, but it was getting closer.

“That’s Eitan,” Alex hissed.  Imhotep nodded.

“Tell him to find the steward and stall the physicians, then when he is gone, fetch that large basket from the bench nearest the door.  We’ll need all the time he can give us.”

Alex nodded and pushed himself back up to go have a quick conversation with Eitan at the workshop’s lone window.  Once the quartermaster was on his way, Alex grabbed the basket in question and set it next to the trough before crouching down behind it.

“Good.  Inside, you’ll find a wooden jar sealed with beeswax.  I will lift my arm from the water and hold it out.  You must put a thick coat of the substance inside the jar over the entirety of the burn.”

“I – yeah, okay, just a moment.”  He’d seen a shallow bowl and a sphere of natron soap when he moved the tables earlier.  Taking some of the trough water into the bowl, he used the natron to scrub himself clean up almost to the elbow, then rinsed his skin and shook off the excess water.  Only then did he see the odd way Imhotep was staring at him.  “What?  I’ve just been in the markets, I’m not about to put dirt and sweat and who knows what else onto a fresh wound.  Shit, Imhotep, I actually do _listen_ when you tell me things.”

“I know you do.”  The quiet way the answer was given added to the way the high priest had almost flinched when Alex had said his name sank guilt deep into the pit of his stomach.

“I’m sorry, I – “

“It is fine, Alaexandros.  You’re doing well.” 

The return to his full name set Alex’s teeth on edge, but he kept his flash of temper down to only a momentary clench of his fists.  Kneeling next to the trough, he found the wooden jar and broke its seal, setting the lid to one side for now.  The ointment inside was an almost solid oil – not quite sticky but thick and substantive.  It smelled strongly of aloe (which made sense to Alex) and mint (which very much did not) but the way his fingers began to tingle when he scooped out the first bit meant there was some kind of analgesic involved and that was really the most important thing right now. 

He nodded once to his companion, who gritted his teeth and lifted the injured arm up out of the cooling water.  Alex let it stand for a moment first, watching the excess water drip away before working in steady circles from wrist to shoulder.  It took the entire jar, but by the time Alex was finished, the lines of pain in Imhotep’s face had eased considerably.  Once that had been accomplished, he pulled the clean linen bandages from that same basket and began to wrap the arm – wrist to shoulder – with the kind of careful precision of which he hadn’t really known himself capable.

“Why do you do that?” Imhotep asked him quietly.

“Do what?” Alex replied, more focused on covering all of the burn without winding the bandage too thick or too tight than he was on the unexpected question.

“You always use the slaves’ language when you talk to them – even with Eitan and the others here, who are no longer slaves and who speak Kemet as well as you or I.”

“Yeah, I do,” Alex acknowledged.  “Is it a problem?”

“No, there is no convention against it.  It is simply unusual.”

Alex shrugged, tucking the last end of one bandage strip into itself and reaching for another.  “It’s more comfortable for them.  They are a conquered people living in an alien land where nothing follows the rules of what they’ve always known.  Their language is the last thing they can truly claim as their own and I’ve always found it beautiful.  There are words and expressions for concepts found in no other tongue.  The way Greek and Kemet are structured, there are so many ways to twist a word until it no longer means what it should.  Hebrew is a fluid language, but within structures of absolutes.  Like a swift river inside a deep canyon.”  A bit of color rose to his cheeks as he realized he was gushing about it like he was talking to a linguistics professor or another student of etymology.  “It’s a lot harder to lie in Hebrew,” he summed up.  “Not impossible, of course, but you have to really _mean_ it.”

Imhotep was silent after that, but to Alex it felt more like their old comfortable silences than the more recent awkward ones.  When he did speak, it was soft and almost… hesitant.  “I had not considered it in this light.  There is wisdom in what you say.  Perhaps… ah, nevermind.”

Another day, Alex would have leapt on that opening, pursued it back along its channel toward something closer to the source of the continuing mystery this frustrating man presented.  Today, however, as the adrenaline from his earlier panic began to fade, it was all he could do to finish the bandage correctly.  Once that was tied off, he closed the basket and set it out of the way, moving benches and table before opening the door and returning to Imhotep with his arm extended. 

Imhotep stared at the offered hand with something that reminded Alex too much of fear tugging at the edges of his expression before setting his jaw firmly and clasping it with his uninjured one.  Alex chose not to comment, instead situating them both so that the priest’s good arm was around his shoulders and his own was braced around Imhotep’s waist. 

“Shall we go ruffle the vultures,” Alex asked as they picked their way carefully back through the courtyard.  “Or would you rather settle into your roost where we can more easily roust them when they become tiresome?”  He’d tried to inject a little good humor into them both before their moods went irreparably sour.  It worked – Imhotep broke into a smile and even a breathless little laugh – but his answer was one Alex had not at all expected.

“Let us go rescue Eitan.  I have faith in your ability to frighten off the butchers when they overstep themselves.”

It was enough to spark a proper laugh from Alex – which in turn made Imhotep’s own smile grow.  “As you command, good sir.  As you command.”

Discussions about the day’s events – and the answers he felt that at this point he was very much owed – would keep.

 

  * \- -



 

As it turned out, they ended up having to ‘keep’ until morning.

Imhotep’s faith proved to be well-placed.  Everyone present thought that it would be the high priest who snapped when he became fed up with the old buzzards’ incessant prodding and endless questions.  But though the lines of pain and tension crept steadily deeper in his face and posture, Imhotep endured the whole affair with something almost like grace.  It was _Alex_ that found himself resisting the urge to bare his teeth every time one of them reached to lay a hand on the bandaged limb to ‘check the heat dear boy’.  And when the _third_ among them had reached in his bag for an instrument with which to cut through those bandages and expose the wound, it was _Alex_ who snapped. 

“Are you physicians with a patient or are you children with a stick and a scarab?” he demanded hotly, stepping in front of the chair where Imhotep sat and blocking the one trying to come nearer with a single hand flat on his chest.  Alex was taller than this man was – stronger, too.  And there was a kind of wildness in his expression that made even Eitan look a little bit nervous.

“Young man!  It is _highly_ irregular for an acolyte to _dare_ presume to – why, why I should have you flogged!“

“Turo.”  The voice calling the physician’s name was low and sharp – the crack of the whip and the rumble of the lion in one.  It commanded the attention of the entire room and sent Alex’s heart racing.  “Alaexandros is _my_ apostate.  When you point your hook at me, he has _every_ right to question your aim.  So long as you are wise, old friend, you will afford him the respect you would give to me.”

Turo – and his fellow physicians – went alarmingly pale beneath their olive complexions, but offered no argument.  Alex decided this was as good a cue as any to make their escape and nodded once to Eitan.  While the quartermaster and the steward saw their guests out, Alex pulled Imhotep once more to his feet and started the slow trek up to his rooms.

“Children with a stick and a scarab?”  It was a dry question, but at least Imhotep had waited until they were halfway up his personal staircase before asking it.  Even without an audience, Alex flushed bright pink.

“It was all I could think of without outright accusing them of being stupid!” he defended, twisting his head around enough to try and see if the high priest was actually angry.  That was his mistake.  It was the closest he’d been to that face in more than half a year and Imhotep was _smiling_ at him in this conspiratorial way that made Alex feel like they were sharing a secret and for a moment it blocked the pain out from those dark eyes and it made his chest _ache._  The urge in that singular moment to taste that mouth or nuzzle the bridge of his nose along that jaw or … or _anything_ to articulate the way his growing fondness for the cranky old panther had sharpened to such an unexpected point – it was beyond any of Alex’s (admittedly limited) emotional experiences.

Had the sound of a slamming door and the shuffling of slaves coming up with dinner not made them both jump, Alex honestly could not have said _what_ he might have done.

Once dinner had been laid out by one girl and the supplies he had asked for earlier were laid out by another, Alex discovered that the biggest challenge of the day was still ahead of him; getting the damn fool to _eat_ something.

“For the last time, I am not hungry.  I am neither a child too young nor a grandfather too old to know my own body, I am well aware of myself.  I simply do not want anything to eat!”

Alex closed his eyes, counted backwards from ten and silently reminded himself that he didn’t _really_ want to strangle Imhotep before he answered.  Slowly.  “Of course you don’t feel hungry.  You’re in pain, which means you’re probably nauseated.  Which is why there are pomegranates and bananas on your plate, not roast ostrich and honey cake.” 

Stubborn silence.  Time for Plan B. 

“Here’s something the Greek physicians teach their students,” he began, noting with relief that here finally was at least his attention.  “The skin?  It helps to protect the body from illness.  It’s why when it is torn open by sword or arrow or fang or claw, sometimes a bad infection sets in.”  Alex could see already he was losing him, this was obviously a conclusion he’d come to himself long before.  “But that’s not its only function.  It also holds in water until you become too hot and sweat it out or it becomes too damaged.  A burn this large is going to make you become dehydrated much quicker than you usually would.  If you won’t eat the banana at _least_ take the pomegranate.  There’s plenty of water in the juice to get you through the night.”

The look on Imhotep’s face plainly said ‘nice try kid’.  Or whatever the linguistic equivalent was for Kemet.  He was obviously not used to being gainsaid on matters of his own body and Alex would have lost, but he had the ace up his sleeve.

“Fine.  Here’s what this comes down to.  I have the _shepenet._  If you eat the fruit, I will give it to you, but you know as well as anyone that poppy on an empty stomach is not at all pleasant.”

Aha!  There, he had him.  Victory was within his grasp!

Imhotep flipped him a very rude hand gesture, but he ate the damn fruit.  In silence.

Once his part of the bargain was fulfilled, Alex brought Imhotep a cup of the same smoky-sweet tea he’d been given on his first night in the temple.  Once the priest had it in hand, Alex bent to start unwinding the bandages so that he could apply fresh ones before Imhotep was entirely unconscious.

“No,” he was interrupted – gruff, but not harsh.  “Leave them overnight.  The salve needs as much time to work as we can allow and I can make no more until the flood waters recede.”  Alex hesitated, chewing on his lip and eyeing the bandages warily.  Imhotep must have been able to read some of it in his face, because he added a promise in low, reassuring tones.  “We can change them first thing in the morning.  Now come, help me to bed.”

Rationally, Alex supposed, he should have known that was coming.  With the drugs in his system, Imhotep was hardly going to be doing any late night reading.  It was just that he had avoided being in it when Alex was awake for so long that it hadn’t even crossed his mind.  He nodded, checked the various ‘loose ends’ of the bandage to make sure they stayed secure, then assisted the priest to the bed, settling him on his side of it and removing his sandals.  It was a slow process, easing Imhotep down to where he could lay on his back without putting any undue pressure on the parts of his left shoulder that were causing him pain.  By the time it was finished, both men had sweat on their faces.  Alex rose and took one of the clean white cloths from next to the water pitcher, returning with it dampened to ease over Imhotep’s brow and neck.

Already he was falling asleep, the drugs taking away the worst of his pain and easing him into unconsciousness.  Alex was glad; the injury he’d seen those few hours earlier would have driven anyone else mad with agony.  He ate a few bites of his own meal and readied himself for sleep, but it was not so easy for him.

Crawling into a bed Imhotep already occupied brought back memories he had not dwelt on in months.  The dark sway of a train car lit only by oil lamps; the rough drag of rugs against his face, already soaked with his sweat and saliva; the weight of each command and the euphoria of each scrap of praise.  He had not forgotten – he would _never_ forget – but while he sat on the edge of ‘his side’ of Imhotep’s bed and waited for the fear, the sickness, the anger…

They did not come.

Alex had always considered himself an enlightened thinker – a real twentieth-century man as Uncle Jon would say.  He knew what had been done to him was wrong, abhorrent in the most despicable way.  He knew that he had every right to be angry and afraid.  He knew that if he had to live through the whole experience again that he would _feel_ those things again.  He knew that someone who had done those things before was absolutely capable of doing them again.  There were reasons – valid, legitimate _reasons_ – to be angry with and afraid of Imhotep.  The rare moments of kindness and goodness he’d glimpsed through the layers of anger and vengeance and insanity and desperation in those earliest days may have been enough to not want him to die or to rot in hell, but that was where reason and logic said any mercy should stop.

Except that’s _not_ where it stopped.  Alex sat there for the better part of an hour trying to find his fear and his rage.  And it wasn’t like they were … _gone,_ exactly.  More like they were little birds flitting just out of his reach.  Visible but not present.  In spite of everything his better sense told him, Alex found that he very much wanted to get into this bed; he _wanted_ to fall asleep – and if he was very lucky, to wake up – with this man beside him.

He did get into bed and he did pull the linen sheet up over himself against the night breezes that would soon begin to stir.  But much as he _wanted_ to sleep like this, he knew he _shouldn’t_ want to, and so he spent about half the night watching the steady rise and fall of Imhotep’s breath and contemplating the distinct possibility that he himself was mad.

 

  * \- -



 

Alex didn’t remember falling asleep – one almost never did when it was being elusive – but waking up was an experience he was not likely to forget. 

The first thing he knew was that he was _warm_ – comfortable in a way he almost never was in the early mornings now that the harvest was over.  The next thing he realized was that he was on his side and not his stomach – unusual for him, but not unheard of when trying to conserve heat.  The fact that he was wrapped around and tangled with another body (which was, on further reflection, the cause of the first two facts) did not even register except as a very distant third.  Despite the comfort of his current position, he had fallen asleep too late for him to be anything like instantly coherent.  That meant that it was a good five minutes more before the implications of his current position decided to march right up and politely bite him in the ass.

Because it wasn’t just that he had wrapped himself around his bedmate; Imhotep had wrapped back.  The more completely he woke up, the more Alex began to take in.  Imhotep’s uninjured arm was wrapped around his back in a loose embrace, holding him against his side where Alex had been using his chest for a pillow.  The leg closest to Alex was bent slightly at the knee to accommodate the one calf beneath it and the other thigh hitched up on top of it.  All in all, Alex realized, they were about as tangled up as they could be while accounting for Imhotep’s injury.

And he was pretty slow first thing in the morning but he wasn’t _stupid._  That Imhotep slept so easily despite the addition of a lanky teenager plastered to his side like coral on a shipwreck told Alex that this was not an uncommon occurrence.  No drug kicking around in this day and age was _that_ good.  Which meant that this was probably why – _oh,_ if that was the reason for the past eight months of ridiculousness, Alex was going to _kill him._  

Judging by the deep and steady way Imhotep was still breathing – and the slow heartbeat under Alex’s ear – there was still the better part of an hour before he would wake.  Carefully extracting himself limb by limb (and wondering how in the _world_ the fool man had managed to do this every morning without waking _him_ when drugs had _not_ been involved) Alex pulled the sheets higher to try and compensate for the loss of his body heat and then went about his usual morning routines.

By the time Imhotep began to stir, Alex was clean, dressed and fed – sitting cross-legged on his side of the bed with two mugs of _buni_ balanced on his thighs.

“You’re an idiot.”

He offered no explanation, but as Imhotep stiffly pushed himself upright (and as Alex deliberately did _not_ think about the kind of strength it would take to do that with one hand while not jarring the whole other side of his body) he did hold out one of the mugs.  He was (deeply, _unbelievably_ ) irritated, but he wasn’t _cruel_. 

“Good morning to you, too.”  There was a pleasant quality to Imhotep’s voice just after waking that Alex had almost forgotten.  He was not going to be swayed.

“You’re an absolute _fucking_ idiot.” 

“So you’ve said.”  Alex felt it was _incredibly_ unfair that despite only being just now woken, obviously in pain and possibly hung over from the drugs that had let him sleep, Imhotep only sounded weary and not at all annoyed.  He watched the high priest inhale deeply the smell of coffee and then indulge in a long, slow drink.  He watched him use his uninjured forearm to wipe across his mouth (without spilling anything from the cup it held) and he watched as those dark eyes finally blinked properly open and settled on him.  “Are you going to tell me why or must I live in suspense?”

“We’ll get there,” Alex bit out, knuckles going white around his own mug before he forced himself to ease up, to take a drink of his own and to _breathe_ first.  “First I want to know what happened yesterday.”

Imhotep shrugged his functional shoulder as if to acknowledge that this was a fair line of inquiry.  “Six would-be assassins dressed as uninitiated acolytes cornered me while I was working.”  Alex went immediately pale.  He hadn’t been paying that much attention to the bodies he’d stepped over beyond the similarity to Caesar’s murderers, but he didn’t have to ask the question that clawed and stuck in his throat.  Imhotep understood his stricken expression well enough to nod.  “They couldn’t have been more than fifteen – sixteen at most.  I did try to subdue them without harm but they were… remarkably well-trained.”

“Who trains _children_ how to kill?”  Alex couldn’t help blurting out what seemed like the obvious question.  His own personal line of inquiry he’d get back to in a moment.

“There were certain… guilds – cults, really – that relied on such practices, but they were disbanded more than a hundred years ago.  Even the royal army cannot recruit a trainee until he has completed his Rite and it will be a year after that before he does anything but swing sticks at his fellows and be knocked into the dirt by his trainers.”  To his credit, Imhotep seemed as disturbed by the idea as Alex was, and remembering having to kill them in his own defense brought something almost haunted to his expression.

Whatever else he might yet become, this man was no monster.

“Wait, six?  There were only five bodies in the workshop with you.”

That gave Imhotep pause.  “So one flew the coop – presumably to inform his master that they had failed.  That is unfortunate, but perhaps it will dissuade any future attempts.”

Alex couldn’t disagree with that assessment and so there was a momentary ceasefire of sorts, both men sipping at their respective drinks until suspicion dawned suddenly over Alex’s face.

“Hang on.”  Imhotep looked up from his own thoughts, startled by the sudden resurgence of accusation in Alex’s tone.  “Hang on, that can’t be right.  There’s a certain way you move when you’ve been trained to fight.  I’ve seen it.”  Ardeth Bay had been a prime example, but not his only one.  “You do it, too.  There’s no way some kids get the drop on you, I don’t care how well they’re trained.”

At least Imhotep had the good grace to look sheepish, swallowing his mouthful and clearing his throat a bit awkwardly.  “I…”  He coughed softly and averted his gaze.  Alex would remember how nobly he gave in and show mercy.  “It is… _possible_ that I may have… dozed off at my bench.”

Nope.  Mercy gone.

“You’re telling me that you may have lost the use of your arm – that you almost _died_ – all because you’ve spent the last gods only know how many _months_ depriving yourself of sleep?!?”  That seemed to be the point where Imhotep started putting the rest of the pieces together, because he froze _absolutely_.  “You’re an idiot!” Alex huffed and launched himself off the bed to cross the room and pour himself another drink. 

He was so angry his hands shook.  It made pouring the hot liquid somewhat hazardous and not at all graceful.  He was furious – he was _incandescent_ – but it felt like a brittle anger, like if he was struck the wrong way it would all shatter and he’d be left with only what roiled underneath.  There was fear down there – not for himself but for the fool still in bed.  There was fear and worry and sorrow and loneliness and guilt and he wanted to deal with absolutely none of it at all. 

“Alaexandros…”  His name came so quietly from far closer than expected.  Alex fumbled with his grip on the pitcher and ended up sloshing coffee out on the table when he set it back down. 

“You could have _died,_ ” he repeated, hating the way his voice cracked before he could finish getting the words out.  He could feel the heat of Imhotep’s right hand against his back – almost touching and then pulling away as though unsure how to even attempt to offer comfort.  Alex braced both hands on the dry edge of the table, shoulders slumped forward in something that probably looked a lot like defeat. 

“No more, Imhotep.  No more.”

“What?”

“You need.  To fucking.  Sleep.”

“But it is not – “

“Not what?” Alex demanded, turning quickly and staring up into that face with naked defiance.  “Not right?  Not appropriate?  The entire city thinks you’re fucking my brains out on a regular basis and you’re worried about what they’ll think of you _sleeping_ with me?”

“No!”  There it was, there was that flash of temper Alex had been waiting all morning to see.  Finding it felt like a victory in and of itself, but it did not last long.  “It was not an effort undertaken for the sake of the old gossiping fishwives, Alaexandros – it was undertaken for _you._ ”

“I – what?”  That took the wind out of Alex’s sails with remarkable speed.

“You can’t help seeking warmth in your sleep, it is not a fault or failing.  I simply thought it best that you did not know.  I…”  He trailed off on a heavy sigh, finally turning away.  “After what you had known of apostasy, I did not want you to be afraid of me.”

“What I had known of…”  And then it clicked, a dim and drug-hazed memory of being asked about his innocence and agreeing that it was indeed gone.  Imhotep had taken him to mean he had been abused as someone else’s apostate.  The sheer amount of irony that the abuse had come at the hands of the man so stupidly self-sacrificing that he almost got himself _killed_ over not wanting Alex to be _afraid_ of him…

Right now it made Alex feel about a thousand years old.

“Sometimes, Imhotep, I _really_ don’t understand you.”

The response was equally weary, but with a touch of self-deprecating good humor mixed in.

“Sometimes, neither do I.”

That made Alex snort a laugh and shake his head, one hand lifting to push back through his hair.  “I’m serious,” he concluded.  “No more of this stay up late and sneak off early bullshit.  If I get too close for comfort kick me or something, but you need to start getting enough sleep – _especially_ while this heals.”  He gestured to the injured arm and the bandages which were starting to show little spots of blood soaking through. 

“Very well,” Imhotep finally conceded, looking just about as uncomfortable as Alex had ever seen him.  “At least until my arm has healed, we will try it your way.”

It was as good a concession as Alex could have hoped for – and came with a lot less of a fight than it could have, all things considered.

“Right.  Yes. Good.  Now, come on.  Sit down and let me change these before you bleed on something sacred.”

Such bright and simple laughter had never felt so much like victory.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This monster has made me crazy all week. There was no good place to stop and it just kept growing and growing and growing until everything was entirely out of hand. I sincerely hope this is the last chapter to run away with me like this and apologize for the extended wait on it. Extra thanks go to Midgetdragon7x for being my second pair of eyes and reassuring me when I got a little nervous about the porn.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated. :3
> 
> Also, at some point soon I'll post a pronunciation guide for the weird names and things I use in this fic. Probably end up on my tumblr and then get linked to in the notes on the next chapter or so. At any rate, enjoy!

“No way.”  Alex had seen a lot of shit in his time, but this was just beyond bizarre.  “No _fucking_ way.”

He stood next to the pile of discarded bandages and _stared_ at the arm he’d only just seen less than a full day before.  And it wasn’t that it looked _great_ , because it was still very much a mess, but it was… there was discernable skin on it – there was _substance_ to it.  It caused Imhotep very obvious pain, but already he could sort of move his fingers again.  There wasn’t much else he could move yet, but after burns bad enough for Alex to get a glimpse of _bone_ he had honestly expected nothing functional out of that arm ever again.

Imhotep was being really rather patient, considering that every little breeze brushing the uncovered burns made him flinch.  Alex recognized this and shook himself.  Really, after having raised his own mother from the dead, one would think he would be surprised by nothing.  “Okay, okay.  Okay.”  Lowering himself to kneel next to the bowl of clean water and the basket of bandages, Alex began to work.  First the entire arm had to be cleaned _carefully._  The tissue that remained was fragile and swollen – thick with inflammation.  He didn’t want to break anything open but the blood and oils needed to be lifted away. 

It was a delicate process – undoubtedly what would take the longest with each dressing change until enough of the skin healed sufficiently to clean with easier methods – but it was not impossible.  Alex managed; he wasn’t perfect, but he managed.  Once that was done, there was a mixture of more mundane plant extracts to be slathered on the burn before it was wrapped again.

“That wasn’t a normal salve you had me use yesterday.”  It wasn’t a question, but Alex left enough of a pause at the end for Imhotep to contradict him if he wished.  He didn’t.  “Just like the glass cracking apart or the water going clean and cold wasn’t normal.”  Again there was no denial.  Alex went on wrapping Imhotep’s arm, satisfied that no, he wasn’t insane and that yes, apparently his life was going to _continue_ to include a lot more of the very weird hocus-pocus brand of fuckery.  The extended silence apparently unnerved Imhotep; it was less than ten minutes after Alex’s last statement when he ventured a question of his own.

“You are not… afraid?”

That one had a complicated answer.

“Of magic?  Yeah, kind of.”  Alex glanced up at Imhotep’s face and saw a heavy kind of sadness that gave him pause.  The hand not slathered in plant-goop moved to rest against his knee – a small squeeze of unspoken reassurance before he went back to work and to his explanation.  “It’s hard not to be wary of it when you’ve seen it suck an oasis dry to create a tidal wave or watched it drain someone’s life away.”  Imhotep went very, _very_ still under Alex’s hands, but he did not interrupt.  They hadn’t ever discussed the subject before, but Alex had pieced together enough of who he was supposed to be over the last months that he felt like he had a pretty safe timeline to work with.

“But if it weren’t for magic I wielded – mostly on accident, to be honest – my… my best friend in all the world would still be dead.”  He paused then, rinsing his hands clean and wiping them dry before starting to work his way up the arm with a fresh bandage.  “So yeah, I’m a little afraid of magic.  Just like I’m a little afraid of a really sharp sword.  If it’s pointed at me, it’s bad news.  But if I have it – or someone I trust does – it can be a comfort too.”

There was silence then, a stillness that stretched on until Alex had finished his work and cleaned the resulting mess.  Just as he went to cross the room and retrieve another cup of the _shepenet,_ Imhotep reached out and took hold of one wrist with his good arm.

“You read the spell from the Book of Coming Forth by Day?”  His question was a quiet one, but there was concern etched in his expression as he looked up at his apostate. 

“Yes, I did.  She – she has a husband and a young child.  I wasn’t going to send them her body.”

“How did you come to possess one?”  There wasn’t any anger in the tone – there was nothing in it – and that honestly frightened Alex more than if there had been.

“We were in the desert west of Abydos to hunt down a group of thieves raiding the old tombs.  One of them had the book.  I was the only one still alive who even recognized it.  It was returned with the rest of what had been stolen.”

Imhotep released his wrist and slumped back in his chair with visible relief, eyes sliding closed until he looked almost like he was at prayer.  “There are not many with the power in their veins to call anything out of that book – fewer still with the force of will to bend it to their own purpose instead of being a tool for the magic’s whim.  I am… impressed.”

Coming from Imhotep, that was _high_ praise.  Alex hid the way his face and neck colored in response by turning to mix and pour the drug-laced tea that would allow the priest to sleep through most of what would otherwise be an intensely painful day.

“Make sure that – “ Imhotep tried to give him further instruction on how to handle the rest of the day, but Alex hushed him with a press of gentle fingertips against his mouth.  It was a liberty that surprised even the boy himself – though he did a good job of running with it, especially when the older man did not immediately explode.

“I have been at your side every day for almost a year, now.  I know what Eitan and I can sort out and what to put aside for you to read later.”  Alex hadn’t yet moved his hand away and though from this distance he could see that those dark eyes had dilated, he also saw the changes in expression that meant a very impressive argument was coming and decided to head it off at the pass.  “Do you trust me?”

That definitely cut Imhotep off.  He wrestled with the idea for a moment while Alex let his fingers slide from dry lips and placed the cup of _shepenet_ into his unimpeded hand.

“Do you trust me?” he repeated, placing a little extra emphasis on each word to show that it really was a simple question.  Imhotep lifted the cup and drank the contents in their entirety, gaze never once moving away from Alex’s own. 

“Yes.”  His single word answer was rasped and strained, obviously not an easy admission.  Alex took the empty cup from him and waited, leaving plenty of room for a qualifier that… never came.  Touched more than he really wanted to think about, Alex set the cup aside for later and helped him cross from his chair back to bed. 

“Sleep, Imhotep.  I won’t be far.”

 

  * \- -



 

As it turned out, Alex managed to arrange the interim schedule so that he only rarely had to leave their suite of rooms.

The first week was unquestionably the hardest.  When Imhotep was awake during the day, he was in terrible pain and abjectly miserable.  When he gave in and took the _shepenet,_ his sleep was disturbed by dreams that often made him thrash and twist in ways not conducive to a healing arm.  There were whole hours where Alex knelt by the side of the bed, trying to soothe and restrain without causing further injury.  It got a little easier when he figured out that sitting in the bed with Imhotep was enough to keep it mostly from ever getting that bad. 

It was an… unconventional way to sort through the piles of information sent to the office of the high priest, but the man himself remained Alex’s priority; everything else could be worked around that.  His system of sorting was simple enough.  Everything he read over went into one of three piles – the largest were things he and Eitan could see to, then there were the things that needed Imhotep’s attention but did not require an immediate answer and finally the small stack of things that needed Imhotep’s attention and could not wait.  The urgent matters he conveyed each evening, during those precious hours between the morning drugs wearing off and the nightly ones being administered.  Imhotep would listen, consider and give Alex instruction on how to proceed. 

The combination of pain and medicines meant that Imhotep was never hungry.  Alex would get nourishment in him through a complicated process of coaxing and bullying, but it was never enough to ease the tight knot of worry in his stomach.

He didn’t get much sleep that first week, but it was alarming how quickly he became accustomed to waking from what he did get wrapped around his bedmate.  When finally the morning came that Alex removed the nighttime wrappings and saw blisters alongside hints of new, pink skin, he had a moment where he was honestly afraid he might cry from relief.

After that, they started scaling down the drugs, adding less and less into the morning _shepenet_ until it was only taken before bed each night.

Despite the increase in wakefulness, Alex found the routine established in that first week varied little.  He woke up held against Imhotep’s side, bathed, dressed, changed the bandages, fought some food into the cranky old panther, took the previous day’s work downstairs to go over with Eitan and the scribes, retrieved the next batch of (endless) reading, worked through it with a more awake Imhotep (the three pile system worked very well indeed), tricked him into eating another meal, changed the bandages, mixed the _shepenet_ and crawled into bed.  There was an inescapable intimacy to it that seemed to do much to settle the priest; he did not shy from small, thoughtless touches while they worked, he wasn’t so stiff and formal when he spoke…  He smiled more.  He _laughed_ more. 

The only dark spot on an otherwise happy existence was the way Imhotep’s face would fall every time the bandages came off and the healing burns were exposed.  There was no doubt at this stage that there would be extensive scarring.  The skin was healing, but twisted and warped like a particularly disturbed child had been playing in clay. 

The first morning he removed the bandages and did not make to put another set on once the arm had been cleaned, Alex jumped nearly six inches out of his skin at the reaction he got.

“What are you doing?” Imhotep snapped.  Arguments about food aside, he hadn’t even raised his voice since the attempt on his life – nearly three weeks gone, now.  It took Alex off-guard and he snapped back reflexively.

“I’m cleaning up this mess, what does it look like I’m doing?”

“No.”  In all of Alex’s experiences, only this man could make one syllable sound so imposing.  It made him tremble in a very Pavlovian response, but that merely served to ignite his own temper.

“No?  What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“You have not replaced the bandages.”

Alex felt a cold sliver of guilt as he realized it had been something he’d _thought_ about, but not spoken out loud before doing.  It wasn’t _much_ of a sliver, since there were about two dozen more mature ways Imhotep could have responded, but it was enough to make him force his answer into a more even tone. 

“No, I didn’t.  You have enough new skin to be alright so long as you don’t jostle it too badly.  It needs to be open to the air for a while or you’ll start to see rot come in under the cloth.  I’ll wrap it again before we go to bed tonight.”

“No.”

There was that word again.  It wasn’t so heavy like it was the first time, but there was enough force behind it still that Alex threw his hands in the air and turned on his heel.  “If this is how you’re going to be today, fine, but I’m not going to sit around and be the punching bag.”

“Wait!”  The call caught him mid-stride, this time containing an edge of desperation that was enough to make Alex (against his better judgment) stop, sigh and slowly turn around.  He could see Imhotep settling back into his chair – which did nothing to make Alex any less infuriated, because if that lunatic had overbalanced on the attempt and _fallen_ on his _injured arm_ …  His jaw worked soundlessly, the motion repetitive as though he was trying to force words that simply refused to form.  Alex could see his good hand clenching over and over into a fist – he could even see the fingers on the injured side twitching.  There was an uncharacteristically naked fear in the eyes that finally found Alex’s face and that was enough for him to ignore the anger in there too and cross the room to crouch in front of that chair.

One hand went to the top of his thigh; the other unclenched that tight fist before sliding up to rest on that forearm.  Alex didn’t even think about doing it until he felt Imhotep tense and then slowly relax under his palms.  They stayed like that for a little while, but eventually the dark eyes dropped from his own and Alex saw shame in the priest’s familiar face.

Once upon a time, he’d have exulted to see it – it would have felt _right._  Now it made him feel… he wasn’t sure.  It made him feel hollow, but that wasn’t an emotion so far as he’d ever been told.

“Wrap it today.”  The quiet request pulled his attention back to the immediate present.  “Please, Khalex.  Tomorrow.  We can begin tomorrow… but give me one more day.”

Alex did not pretend to understand – he was fairly certain it had something to do with the look on Imhotep’s face every time the bandages _had_ to come off, but he had never struck Alex as a particularly _vain_ man, which meant there was something he was missing. 

“Okay, _habibi._ ”  Alex’s voice was soft, his acceptance colored with what reassurance he could give.  “Okay.”  He hadn’t meant to slip the Arab-Hebrew endearment into it, but neither did he feel particularly inclined to take it back.  Imhotep nodded and Alex squeezed the leg under his hand before pushing back and gathering what supplies he would need.

Salving and bandaging the arm was old hat by now; the whole process took Alex less than ten minutes.  When he knelt up and finished tying off the last end over Imhotep’s shoulder, he saw the torso under his hands begin to twist.  The opposite hand came up to rest against the back of Alex’s neck and before he understood precisely what was happening he felt the firm press of thin lips against the hairline just above his temple.  He recognized the gesture for what it was – silent, trusting thanks – and twisted just enough to bump the bridge of his nose up against the underside of Imhotep’s chin in a playful acknowledgment before pulling back to stand and stare down at his ‘patient’ with hands on hips.

“Now eat something, will you?  I’ve got to go talk with Tasherit about the arrangements for the shared rites and at least _one_ of us should have a productive morning.”  Alex wasn’t sure if it was the reminder of the upcoming sacred month or the mention of Sekhmet’s often waspish high priestess that caused Imhotep to pull that particular face.  Either way, it felt good to start down the stairs still laughing.

 

  * \- -



 

Eitan ben Abijah had more to be grateful for than most.

Born to slaves, he had been purchased from their mason masters younger than anyone in his family eve had been.  He’d been educated, freed and offered a position which allowed him enough bounty to bring his family out of labor and into comfort one by one.  There were voices in the community that spoke out against him – him and all the _bogedi_ who lived their lives outside the strictures which bound the majority of their people – but he had always believed in the wisdom of never biting off more than could be chewed.  He was one man.  He could do nothing about the systemic subjugation of an entire people.  It _was_ within his power to make life better for himself and his family.  Surely that was enough.

Even among the other _bogedi,_ there was a certain level of disdain for Eitan; this was not a personal offense, but a professional one.  He was not the only one to find gainful employment in the business affairs of an idolatrous temple, but he _was_ the only one who would work so closely with Imhotep.  Amraphael, his people called him – the one who speaks darkness. 

The ability to sense and affect the world around them had not been so diluted – so diminished – in the children of Israel as it had been in their captor race.  Their talents were almost always either passive (as in the reading of auras or prophetic dreaming) or supportive (words for healing and words for protection).  Every generation, one child was born with a more active gift.  These were the kings, the heroes of their people, but they had not been blessed with a single one in the generations since setting foot on Kemet’s black soil.

While they still waited for their deliverer, the children of Israel were ever vigilant lest a fate even worse than this one befall them when there was no one to shield them from it.  Amraphael _pulsed_ with power – even the weakest among them could feel it radiating from him like heat from the great forge fires – but it was nothing like their own energies.  To them it felt dark, overwhelming… _terrible_ in all its unknowable scope.  Their seers never laid eyes on him without nearly choking on the metallic tang of fresh blood.  He was anathema; he was the wolf among the sheep.

Eitan had always been of the firm belief that a man’s _actions_ should matter more than his appearance – supernatural or otherwise.  The one he could control; the other he could not.  To him it was as simple as that.  Imhotep had never been what one would call _warm,_ but he had always – _always_ – been fair.  He had picked out Eitan out of a hundred temple slaves and given him a chance to make not only his own life better, but that of his _family_.  This was more than enough to ensure his loyalty for so long as Eitan drew breath.  However, much as he was willing to _defend_ Imhotep – and much as he had never been given reason to _complain_ about his position – he had never very much _enjoyed_ it.

That is, until the private guard of the Queen-to-be had marched through the temple and brought with them Alaexandros of Crete.

Where Imhotep was blood and darkness, the boy they called Alexander was as bright and warm as the morning sun.  Eitan knew enough Greek to recognize the name – Alaexandros, Defender of Mankind.  He was young – a good seven years his junior at _least_ – but the boy with the golden hair and eyes the color of the clear sky made friends very nearly _everywhere_ he went.  People were drawn to him and though Eitan thought he looked uncomfortable with it a lot of the time, Alex did his level best to be kind.

Oh there was no denying his temper; Eitan lived and worked in close enough proximity – especially during the last few weeks of Imhotep’s convalescence – to have been the unwilling audience for more than a few… heated arguments between their high priest and his apostate.  And Eitan, with his own cultural and religious upbringing, wasn’t sure at _all_ how he felt about… that, but there was no denying that Alaexandros’ presence in the temple had been good for its master.  Most recently, it seemed like it had been doing Alex some good as well, so it was with great surprise that Eitan found him down in one of the empty workrooms downstairs that afternoon.

“Alex?”  Unlike most of… well, the rest of everyone else, Eitan tried very hard to remember to honor the boy’s stated preference of shorter given name.  The missives for the day were still piled haphazardly on the table in front of him and the sound of his own name had been enough to make him jump.

“Eitan!  I’m sorry, you startled me.”

Eitan smiled mildly and inclined his head toward the younger man.  “Then I should be the one to offer apologies; that was not my intention.”  The fact that Alex always addressed him in his native language had endeared him to Eitan almost immediately.  Even now it made his mouth twitch with a small smile.  “I came looking for a quiet space to compile the storage tallies – I would have thought you’d be upstairs again by now.”

Judging by the way the boy darted a quick look over his shoulder to gauge the daylight, Eitan presumed he must have been very deep in his own thoughts. 

“I – “  That Alex began to talk only to cut himself off so quickly was not, strictly speaking, unusual; that his face fell into lines of a puzzled, troubled frown, however… that was a first in Eitan’s experience.  Setting his own work on an otherwise unoccupied section of table, he took the seat across from the boy and gestured for him to continue at his leisure.  He had learned a long time ago that patience was a virtue _well_ worth cultivating.

It was well he had, for it took young Alex an awfully long time to sort out what it was he wanted to say.

“Why would survival be shameful?”

Eitan wasn’t sure he understood the question.  His confusion must have been easy to read, for Alex quickly rephrased.

“I mean scars.  Having them means you weren’t killed by whatever it was that attacked you, essentially.  Why is there shame in that?”

“Ah, I see.”  It did not take a great leap of intellect to piece together this specific line of inquiry with Alex’s change in routine and come to a broad sort of conclusion.  It was an odd question to hear from an acolyte, but each temple had their own traditions and he supposed it would be impossible to have an entirely standard education.  “You are aware of the importance of collecting each piece of the body during burial preparations, yes?”

Alex nodded, already leaning forward attentively.

“It all comes from the same root idea.  A whole unit of soldiers is more powerful than one at only half strength.  A jackal with all his teeth will have a deadlier bite than his fellow with only a few.  So the belief is held among the religious and political elite that all power is related to being whole.”  It was a foolish idea, easily disproved by anyone who’d been in the same room as the high priest since the incident (which was not all that many, honestly, the apostate sitting across from him had been like a wall between the recovering Imhotep and the vultures circling outside).  However, when one took into account how few of them were left who could actually _sense_ such things, Eitan supposed their faulty logic would have to be excused.

“But I’ve seen generals with scars who command more respect than almost anybody.”

“A very good observation, Alex.  Indeed, scars in the usual way aren’t considered a ‘loss’ that would affect an individual’s usefulness.  However, if it was extensive enough to appear as though an entire limb had been mutilated…”  He trailed off there, knowing the lad was smart enough to fill in the rest.

“Iesous,” Alex hissed.  That… was not a curse with which Eitan was familiar – he knew no one associated with the temple or those within it by that name – but he was not given the chance to ask.   “How serious an accusation is a loss of power like that?”  Eitan’s disdain for that question was obvious enough that Alex cringed and let his face fall into his palms.  “Oh gods… for a high priest of _course_ they would make a big deal out of it.”

“Indeed.  I imagine that knowledge has not set well with your master.” 

“No,” Alex sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face.  “No, it most certainly did not.”  That the boy hadn’t fought against the classification of Imhotep as his master – hadn’t seemed to _notice_ , even – was a good indication of how deeply this really did worry him.

“You cannot take his temper to heart, Alex.”  It was something he’d had to explain to any number of new additions to their staff, but that it had taken this long for the topic to come up was a first.  It was that knowledge which made Eitan extra gentle in its execution.  “He rants and he roars and occasionally breaks things, but he’s never hurt one of us.”

“What?  Oh.  That.”  Eitan’s brow furrowed; wasn’t that the root of all of this?  “I’m not afraid of him anymore.”  He was impressed in spite of himself.  Even after twenty years under Imhotep’s ownership, tutelage and employ, Eitan still found himself nervous from time to time – justified or not. 

“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.  What troubles you if not his anger?”

“I can’t let them take him down, Eitan.  Not over something so stupid.”  It was an admirable sentiment, but the intensity, the passion behind it was something unheard of in all but the oldest and most devoted servants.  “I won’t.”

Ah.  Yes.  That… would certainly explain a few things.

“Alex…”  Eitan tried to formulate some kind of advice – a caution for this young man whom he counted as a friend – against what he knew of their high priest’s hard and unmoving nature.  One did not choose such isolation as Imhotep had without reason.  Eitan and the other inner circle of attendants had their own theories, but even the kindest of explanations meant heartache for anyone (and probably everyone) involved.  “Be careful.”

“I know, I know.  The politics at court are dangerous.  That doesn’t mean it’s impossible, just difficult.”

Eitan knew they were on two different pages now, so he made an effort to steer them back to the most immediate point first.  “You have been good for him, Alex.  This is the closest to happiness any of us has ever seen from him, but our high priest is a driven man.  His work is his life – has always been his life.  He does not have family, he does not have friends; it is not in his nature.  You must not expect more than he is capable of, it… it would only injure you both.”

To his credit, Alex took the time to mull this all over – to consider it properly before forming a response.  “I understand more than you give me credit for, Eitan.”  He opened his mouth to object, to point out that he meant no slight by his warning, but Alex shook his head.  “I know you mean well, my friend.  I appreciate your concern, but I know what I’m doing.”

Eitan wasn’t all that sure he did, actually, but it was not his place to say so.  Instead, he simply inclined his head in silent acknowledgment and allowed the subject to lapse in favor of one a bit less awkward for them both.  “What is it you propose then?  If I have learned anything about those who move in the highest circles, they will have been preparing to exploit this since the news of his attack and the subsequent dismissal of the physicians reached their palaces.”

Alex was quiet again, studying Eitan in a way that made him feel restless.  When the boy broke into a lopsided, conspiratorial grin, the quartermaster was left with an inexplicable sense of relief.

“Find me a blacksmith, an astronomer, a mathematician and a seamstress, Eitan.  Here’s what we’re going to do.”

 

  * \- -



 

The sacred month came upon them at last – the celebration of their gods coming into the world – and Imhotep felt restless.  Normally his presence was required throughout all aspects of celebration, but he had been ‘relieved’ of such duty in light of his continued recovery.  _Relieved_.  That word had burnt in his gut ever since he’d read it in the Pharaoh’s official missive.  He was invited to come on the final day and perform the rites for Ptah, but that was all.  It was an outrage!  He lead those who served the greatest of all gods – he who had fashioned the heavens and given life to all other deities – and he was brushed aside like so much sand.

Nevermind that he would have been abjectly miserable spending four extra days in the snake pit Thutmose called his court; that was beside the point entirely.

His mood had been further soured by an excess of time to ruminate on the perils of his current situation.  Alaexandros had been absent their rooms more and more of late and he could suffer no other company for more than an hour at most.  Of course the petty and the power hungry would move against him soon, that much he had known from the first day his arm had been left bare.  But from this position there was little that could be done.  He would survive the final sacred day and then regroup while the river flooded its banks.

The night before he was due to make his appearance at court, Imhotep took only a third of the _shepenet_ that had served as enough relief to sleep through every night since he’d been attacked.  It made for a restless night and uneasy fits of dozing.  He woke sometime after moonrise to the sensation of thin arms gathering him close.  He rolled to his uninjured side and was tucked under Alaexandros’ chin.  One arm served as a pillow and that hand stroked and caressed over his bare head and down along the back of his neck.  The other rested on his hip, thumb drawing lazy circles. 

It was no more intimate than the way he often woke now, but to have the process going on while he was aware of it was something entirely new.  Each breath drew in the familiar scent off his apostate’s skin and the warmth shared between them was entirely comfortable.  Imhotep found himself soothed, felt his body relaxing in a way that had become rare since his Khalex had begun spending so much of his days elsewhere.  An ache rose in his chest, fondness sharpened to an edge with which he had no prior experience.  As he drifted off into a much more restful sleep, the last thought he could remember was to wonder how he had ever slept a night through without this boy in his bed.

Waking again was not at all unpleasant – Alaexandros’ mouth was pressed against his brow and his sleep-roughened voice was softly repeating Imhotep’s name – but it still came far too soon.

“Come on, _habibi._  Wake up, I’ve a gift for you before we leave.”

The exchange of such gifts was not uncommon during any of the festival times, but Imhotep had never been the recipient of one that hadn’t been a matter of state.  Inhaling a long, deep breath, he bumped his nose against Alaexandros’ jaw and pulled back to sit up and begin the day.

“Very well,” he rumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes with his uninjured hand.  Being awake before the sun was not a new phenomenon for him, but Imhotep had fallen out of the habit over the last few weeks and was not at all pleased to be returning to it – even if only for one day.  “What have you to show me, Alaexandros?”

He didn’t answer at first, instead removing the bandages covering Imhotep’s ruined arm.  The sight of the mangled, webbed scar tissue still made him sick to his stomach, though Alaexandros certainly never seemed bothered.  Imhotep turned away, unwilling to see it again even in the more forgiving firelight from the nearby torches.  When the process was done, he expected to have his attention called elsewhere.  Instead, he felt two warm hands rest gently against his shoulder.

“I learned something new,” Alaexandros told him, and before Imhotep could make it so far as wondering if this was his gift, a soft and subtle glow lit all the places where their skin touched.  It was warm and flowed down Imhotep’s arm like honey.  It left a vague taste of spices on the back of his tongue, but it had also relieved him of his pain.  The limb was still stiff and he doubted it would stand up to anything like normal use, but he had not felt so at ease in almost five weeks now; the relief was a gift, indeed.

“Khalex,” he breathed before he could catch himself, impressed and also proud.  “This is wonderful, thank you.”  His power was suited to other magicks; it was not something he would have managed on his own.  “Where did you find the spell?”

His apostate only grinned down at him, flush with praise and nearly vibrating with excitement.  “You’re not my only friend who knows things.” 

Fighting down the entirely irrational surge of bile and jealousy that answer invoked, Imhotep tried for the less confrontational route of inquiry, but he wasn’t even given the chance to formulate another question before they were interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“That will be Eitan,” Alaexandros explained, trailing fingertips over twisted skin as he turned to answer it.  Two broad-shouldered slaves entered first, bearing a heavy trunk which they abandoned in the center of the room before bowing low in Imhotep’s direction.  He waved them off and stood, stretching his good arm and popping his back on his way toward the chest.  He could hear Alex and Eitan talking rapidly in the slaves’ musical language, but rather than pay attention, he placed his hand palm down against the wood and frowned at the low hum of energy he could feel pulsing through it.

“Oh Alaexandros,” he sighed under his breath.  “What have you done?”

 

  * \- -



 

“Either you are a genius or a madman, Alaexandros.” 

Alex knew it wasn’t, strictly speaking, meant to be praise, but he found himself grinning brightly anyway.

“Be still,” Imhotep snapped without venom.  “I have not decided which it is, yet.”

“I don’t care,” he shot back, his grin melting into a _very_ satisfied smirk as he gave the priest an appreciative once-over.  “You look _good._ ”

“ _Stop_ that,” he snapped again – this time with a little more force behind it.  “I look ridiculous.” 

Alex was undeterred; he had endured enough of Imhotep’s moods to distinguish defense mechanisms from genuine ire.  Licking his lips in an intentionally suggestive way, he tipped his head back just far enough to look into dark eyes and raised both brows with faux innocence that fooled exactly no one at all.  “I can promise _that’s_ not true.”

“Enough.”  This time there was a thread of warning in that low rumble.  “Such sport is beneath you, Alaexandros.”

_What?_  “But I’m n-“

“What is this display meant to achieve, exactly?”  Imhotep interrupted his argument and Alex stared at him with narrowed gaze for a moment.

“I should think that’s self-explanatory,” he drawled dryly, conversational payback for Imhotep’s slipshod exertion of control. 

“Obviously the cloth… ‘sleeve’ and the metal plating disguise my deformity – “ Alex started to protest (again) his persistence in referring to his injury that way, but Imhotep paid him no mind and simply plowed straight on “— but I don’t understand the significance of the gold, nor the spells folded into the metal.”

Alex’s smile came back to stretch his face until his cheeks hurt.  “So you _can_ feel it.  I _knew_ it – I _knew_ you could.”

“ _Alaexandros_.” 

That was the sound of Imhotep on the very edge of losing patience.  Considering the stresses of the day, Alex supposed he had prodded at him enough.

“Alright, Chanticleer.  You’re going to bring up the sun.”

 

  * \- -



 

_Bastet preserve me, this boy will be my death._  

Standing on the platform of, frankly, the most ridiculous chariot he’d ever seen, Imhotep was still having serious doubts about the wisdom of his current course.

_And yet here you are,_ the pervasive hiss in the back of his mind reminded him.  _You survived so long, climbed so high…  They have tried everything to bring you to heel, and it turns out all it takes is a pair of pretty thighs._  

Shaking himself almost viciously, Imhotep growled under his breath and reminded himself that there was a method to this plot – in addition to the madness.  Alaexandros’ spell had meant that the armor he now wore did not cause him pain, which would be a boon as the day wore on.  It felt odd, to be encased in cloth and metal on one arm while the other was bare save for the golden serpent on his bicep.  That was the other thing; all this _gold._  It served its purpose, but he felt ostentatious.  He felt ridiculous, no matter what that maddening boy tried to claim. 

There was gold around his bicep, there was gold inlay on every piece of the metal pauldron and greave that wound down his ruined limb, there was gold in the ornament holding his crimson wrap tight around his hips, there was even gold in his sandals and in the chain which draped the sacred panther skin from his armored shoulder like a Greek prince’s cape.  The damned _chariot_ was gold, for pity’s sake.  It all looked silver in the moonlight, of course, but Imhotep knew what it was – what it would become with the dawn – and felt very much like he wanted to vomit.

Before he could do anything about that sensation, the jangle of the horses’ harness signaled Eitan and Alaexandros’ arrival from the temple entrance and when he looked up, Imhotep felt like the world had been turned very much on its ear.

Doubtless their entry had been timed precisely so that he would not have time to argue, but even had he been given an hour to formulate an articulate way to express the roil of desire and denial in his gut, he wasn’t entirely sure it would have made sense.

Alaexandros had apparently taken leave of _all_ sense.  He wore the rich purple chiton of the northern island kings and a wreath of golden laurel sat in the loose mess of golden curls.  The fabric of the foreign garment barely met the standard of ‘decent’ length, but even that was not so obscene as the golden chain that bound the golden collar around his neck to the golden shackles on his wrists and his ankles. 

There was no doubt that he was meant to portray a prisoner of war, but as Eitan helped him climb into the chariot in the subservient place half a step behind Imhotep and just off his shoulder, the priest could not figure _why._  Everyone knew his apostate by now.  This wasn’t going to fool anyone.

The ceremonial procession started off ahead of them and the well trained pair of black Libyan mares pulling their contraption followed suit.  At this point it was too late to turn back.  They had only a narrow window of time to reach the palace courtyard at the conclusion of the midnight rite for Anubis and already the common people lined the street to watch them go by.

When Imhotep saw the first of them fall into step behind their flank of guardsmen, he felt ice sink slowly into the pit of his stomach.  How could he have forgotten?  As the patron deity of craftsmen of all kinds as well as the chief creator, Ptah was the defender of the common man.  None could be barred entrance to the celebration of his birth – for it was the birth of them all. 

Whatever happened today was going to happen in front of all Men-nefer.

Staring straight ahead, Imhotep felt the icy fear coalesce into something much closer to _rage_ when he felt the boy beside him shift his weight and whisper five meaningless words in his ear.

“Go big or go home.”

Before he had met Alaexandros of Crete, Imhotep had never felt the simultaneous need to choke a person and to kiss them senseless.  It was no longer an unfamiliar sensation, but tonight it had most _definitely_ intensified.

 

  * \- -



 

The Pharaoh’s palace at Memphis (Imhotep couldn’t correct him inside his own head, so Alex was going to use the Greek word all he liked) was splendid even in the dark grey of predawn.  Enormous oil lamps normally kept the entire complex in a state of red-gold glow, but for tonight’s offering, everything was dark.  Everything was silent, too.  Even the horde of people following in the wake of the priests and soldiers from Ptah’s temple were quiet.  There was a weight to the atmosphere that made the hair on the back of Alex’s neck stand on end.

Contrary to what Imhotep had been muttering about off and on from the time he filled him in to the time they set off from the temple, Alex had a _very_ good idea of what was at stake.  Failure in any respect could very well mean his life – and that wasn’t actually the worst case scenario.  Yet in spite of this he had forged ahead with planning and then preparation and then execution.  Most days he rationalized it with the fact that he had to get to a place from which he could actually _influence_ Imhotep if they were going to succeed in this.  Some days he acknowledged that there was a particular burn to pull this off because the idea of opportunistic cowards plotting a strike against the high priest rankled hard at his sense of protectiveness and fair play.

But tonight, as they drew into the large palace yard filled already with nobles, priests and royalty of all varieties – as he stood close enough to feel the heat (and the determination) off Imhotep’s body – Alex had to admit to himself just this once that there was a deeper reason, too.  Moments away from the greatest possible disaster of his _life,_ all Alex wanted in all the damn world was to see pride – to see _affection_ – in haunting dark eyes.  It all boiled down, he supposed, to the fact that some part of him was still the kneeling slave with the newly woken hunger for his master’s praise sharp and hot in his belly.  Perhaps some part of him always would be.

That possibility didn’t bother him as much as it should have, and _that_ was enough to make him sick.

The procession rolled to a stop.  Those in front of them had peeled away to left and right, leaving Imhotep and Alex in a chariot directly in front of Pharaoh’s throne.  One of the younger priests walked forward from behind them and held an enormous book over his head like a living pulpit.  Imhotep did not acknowledge his presence, did not even blink.  He simply reached forward, opened the great book, and began to read.

This was the tensest Alex thought he’d ever been in his life – and that included days on a train in the desert where he’d honestly thought he would break.  The precise mathematic calculations involved to pull this off were hard enough in their own right – harder still without numerals that made sense to him.  Eitan had found him a scholar who had spent time in Athens – bless him – but the process had not been an easy one.  If there was one piece to their plan most likely to go awry, it was this one.  And yet…

And yet, standing there listening to Imhotep read in a voice powerful enough to rattle around a little inside Alex’s chest, he could not help the faith that flickered to life alongside the hope he had already begun to cling to.  Imhotep was remarkable in his own right.  He always had been.  And as he began to read the seven greetings for the dawn, Alex came to a sudden and startling realization.

The difference between this Imhotep and the one he had met in the desert was painfully simple.  This one struggled against a deeply held belief that he was worthless; the one Alex had known had been doing everything he could think of in a desperate attempt to prove that he wasn’t.

This understanding drew up affection and a fierce, hot protectiveness in Alex instead of… he didn’t know, but something more appropriate would have been nice.  It twisted his insides, but there wasn’t time to dwell on that.  Imhotep had reached the final greeting, the one which bade the sun to rise and shine its bounty on the children of its creator.

Nothing happened.  Alex held his breath.

Imhotep paused and if Alex hadn’t known any better he would have sworn the frustration on his face was real.  The invocation was repeated, but again was met with nothing but continued darkness.

The crowds began to get restless.  Alex could hear shifting and murmurs – even one quickly smothered laugh.  It was all he could do to keep a straight face; biting down on his tongue was not as much help as it was supposed to be.

Huffing a breath of agitation, Imhotep slammed the book closed and lifted his face to the heavens – to the place where the sun was meant to rise behind the Pharaoh’s throne.  “Ungrateful child!  You would spit rebellion into the face of your father on this day of all days?”  His shout echoed around the courtyard with slivers of such power that even the thin-blooded among them shivered.  The darkness around them remained unchanged and a low growl resonated in Imhotep’s chest that made Alex’s pulse roughly double, his breath caught tight between his ribs.

Now was really, _really_ not the time.

“If you insist on so dishonoring Ptah the Creator who has given so much, then I have no choice.  Order must be restored.  Order must _always_ be restored.”

Inhaling slowly, Imhotep moved his arms to his sides and concentrated. 

It started with the gold inscribed in the metal and worked its way down, an unearthly glow reminiscent of the sun itself.  As Imhotep slowly raised his arms, the glow intensified until it came from all of his adornment, from Alex’s restraints – from the chariot itself.  His arms were out and flat like the horizon, gathering his power for the slow push up and beyond.

Alex _expected_ the sun to rise with his motion, the first rays striking the river below in a display that was sure to prove their point.

He had _not_ expected for the sun to _keep rising_ – climbing until it hung at a noontime zenith over their heads.  Neither had he expected for the touch of its rays to have the effect they did.  As they were illuminated, the two mares faded from pitch to a blinding white; his tunic bled from purple to a bright and vibrant crimson.  It was the same color as the cloth wrapped about Imhotep’s hips, which really, _really_ didn’t matter right now but was the only detail Alex’s brain seemed capable of fixing upon.

Imhotep let his arms fall to his sides, breath coming fast and a thin sheen of sweat accenting the shimmer from the mineral powder his priesthood had always adorned themselves with for the highest holy days.  Around them was nothing but silence.  No one moved.  No one spoke.  Alex would honestly have been surprised if anyone _breathed._  

They didn’t exactly have a plan for this, but Imhotep played it off with more grace than Alex thought it was fair for any one person to have.

“O great Pharaoh, on this the day of his blessed birth, as Ptah our Creator presented the sun to Amun-Ra to bless his reign of order and prosperity over the heavens, so I honor my father with this humble gift to you.”  And he lowered himself into a graceful bow of respect from his waist.  Alex watched the entire affair with undisguised awe.  “The willful sun has once more been brought to heel because the heavens have been brought to order.”

A snap of his fingers brought the youngest of their acolytes running forward to kneel before Pharaoh and hold up a copy of the Reckoning of Days, modified with Alex’s correction and inscribed on a tablet of gold inlaid with malachite and opal.

“The wisdom of Ptah has given rise to a new order of days.  Our arrangement of the stars would so often slip into chaos because we were remiss in our honor of the gods during this time of sacred celebration.  We do not account for the god who walks among us.  If, every four years, our sacred month is extended by one day to allow for the celebration of he who sits on the throne of Iset, order will be forever restored among the stars with whom we keep sacred pact.”

There was one terrible moment where Thutmose did nothing.  Alex knew he was not unaware of the power just displayed – he’d _seen_ him go pale under his tan – and yet he seemed determined to make them all wait as though he had some great judgment to pass.  With measured movements he reached out and took the new Reckoning from the child, stroking fingers along his own jaw as he studied it and then simply set it aside.

“Your gift is commendable, Imhotep.  As a son of Ptah’s sacred priesthood, you do your holy father proud today.”  His mouth curved up into a genial, paternal smile, but something about the expression made Alex uneasy.  “But I see captive Helios in your retinue.  Why not make a gift of him instead?”  Fear, disgust and rage processed through Alex one on the heels of another at breakneck speed.  “Surely a northern godling would make a better offering than a festival every four years.  Why should one appease me better than the other?”

“Son of Helios,” Alex called back, naked defiance in tone and manner.  “And it would be a poor gift indeed when I have only one master.”  Alex felt a rush of fear in the wake of his words, but the sensation was not his own.

Thutmose barked out rich laughter, but Alex was certain he hadn’t imagined the flash of temper immediately prior.  “And which master is that, child?”

Alex smirked, lifting one brow higher than the other.  “It wasn’t you that brought the sun to heel.”  He shrugged and turned, chains singing a soft music that despite his bold words made his skin crawl.  That wash of fear not his own started to twist, to mingle with frustration and a possessive rage that shook Alex to his core.

“Truly spoken, son of Helios.  Come.  Your master has brought us the sun – it is time we celebrated her creator.”

 

  * \- -



 

After the morning they’d had, Alex felt that he was entirely justified in his continued indulgence of Pharaoh’s most excellent wine throughout the rest of the day’s festivities.  When he found himself that same evening grabbed by the front of his chiton, yanked into a dark corridor and slammed back against the wall by a furious Imhotep, however, he rather started to regret it.

“You mad fool!  Do you know what you’ve _done?_ ”

“Me?  I’m not the one who went overkill on the fucking _sun_ today.”

The way Imhotep’s mouth twisted into a momentary frown told even an inebriated Alex that his point had been well made.  Still, he wasn’t to be diverted.

“Ankhhaf is dying,” he hissed, face alarmingly close to Alex’s own and voice pitched so that only he could hear.  “In six months – maybe less – Kemet will be without a vizier to govern under Pharaoh.”

Alex nodded, but he wasn’t really seeing what point this information could possibly have except.  “You are… to succeed him?”

There was a manic light in Imhotep’s eyes as he nodded sharply.  It was too close to the look he’d worn on their way to Ahm Shere and Alex was too drunk for the spike of fear that resemblance shot through him.  Imhotep saw it – of fucking _course_ Imhotep saw it – but drastically misinterpreted its cause.

Sort of.

“Khalex,” he murmured, both hands coming up to cradle Alex’s face between them.  “My entire life has been about finding this opening and you gave it as a gift without asking anything in return.”  Alex wasn’t sure if it was the words themselves or the raw and vulnerable tenderness with which they were spoken, but something in Imhotep’s reply made his heart leap into his throat.  “No matter what comes, know that I will _never_ abandon you.  You have no reason to be afraid.”

Alex spared a brief thought to wonder whether or not _Imhotep_ was also drunk, but quickly tossed it aside in favor of the action that _definitely_ sounded like a better use of his time.  In a way that felt familiar and yet not – because nothing in the realms of the dead was exactly true to life – he reached both hands (cuffed but no longer chained) to grab the taller man by the back of his neck and pull him down to where Alex could surge up and kiss him.  And kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Imhotep must have been drunk on _something_ , for there was not even the faintest hitch or hesitation in the way he responded – hungry and demanding – to those eager, messy kisses.  Alex found himself digging his fingernails into Imhotep’s neck for purchase and he responded with a low growl and a press forward until Alex was well and truly pinned. 

“You should not have baited Pharaoh the way you did,” Imhotep panted against his mouth before trailing little sucking kisses up the length of his jaw.  He nipped at Alex’s earlobe and then sucked it into his mouth to soothe the sting.  It was a reprimand, but the purr in his voice was most definitely (territorially, a slightly hysterical voice in the back of Alex’s head pointed out) pleased.  “Son of Helios, indeed.  You brazen, beautiful creature.”  He laughed roughly against the shell of Alex’s ear and that alone sent a hot pulse of desire rocketing across pale skin.

“It’s part of my charm,” Alex gasped back, unable to control the way his hips jerked forward when Imhotep found a particularly sensitive place on his neck.

Imhotep hummed his agreement, bending just enough to suck a bruise at the bared juncture of neck and shoulder.  “I won’t deny that, but you could perhaps have skipped over telling the entire court that he was not man enough to master you.”

That made Alex draw back, chest heaving with panting breath and eyes fierce as he locked gazes with Imhotep.  “No, I could not.”  Imhotep opened his mouth to respond and Alex cut him off, his own voice rough with the things he did not express when in full control of his faculties.  “I will _die_ before I let someone else touch me without my consent.”  He meant every word.  “I bend when _I_ choose to bend, not at the whims of anyone else.”  He saw understanding in Imhotep’s familiar face, but more than that, he saw that dark affection he’d craved for longer than he wanted to think about, let alone admit.  “I _want_ you,” he continued, raw and earnest.  “I do not want him.”

Once more he saw that mouth open and once more Alex jumped in before the argument could be made.  “He can sweeten the pot with anything he likes; the scales still tip to you.”  For a brief moment, Alex saw something soft and very young when he looked up at Imhotep’s face. 

“A little godling, indeed.”  It captivated him, but he soon had his attention diverted elsewhere. 

Being pulled from the wall and held tight against a powerful body while being exquisitely, thoroughly kissed was one hell of a distraction.  Alex melted into that strength and mewled desire into his claiming mouth.  Imhotep took one step backward and then spun them both around until he sat on the closest of this hallway’s intricately carved wooden benches with its respective mess of overly elaborate cushions.  His uninjured hand trailed down Alex’s arm until he could take hold of that hand and tug him in close again.  He made to turn, to recline lengthwise along the seat while he pulled Alex against his chest.

Alex…

Alex had different ideas.

He came forward when Imhotep tugged, but he brazenly straddled his thighs before any change in respective positions could be achieved.  He heard the sound of breath catching in the throat that courted it and grinned. 

In a more rational frame of mind, Alex would absolutely have flushed at the way his clothing and chosen position did nothing at all to hide the heat and hardness of him.  As it was, he was too busy being lost in the sensual slide of linen and skin, in the way Imhotep’s eyes went _absolutely_ black.  He wanted – oh Alex had ample proof of that from his perch – but even now he tried to show restraint. 

Alex was having none of it.

He rolled his hips, grinding against the body beneath him in a way that was not so much suggestive as it was outright explicit.  Imhotep snarled against his jaw, but instead of upping the ante, he seemed even more determined to lower it.  He leaned up only slightly and this time teased at Alex’s mouth – little brushes, small nibbling caresses that made him whimper and try to press for more, for deeper.  This only encouraged Imhotep, who rested firm hands on Alex’s hips, holding him steady so that he had to work hard if he was going to continue to try and push for his own way.

Restraint had always had the opposite effect of docility on Alex, but with Pharaoh’s wine still thick in his blood – with the scent of incense heavy in the air and the sound of dancers’ drums matching the race of his heart – he felt his resistance twisting into something new.  There was a dark and primal place inside of him that _thrilled_ at his partner’s strength, _purred_ at the exertion of precise control.  He arched his back and leaned forward to nip sharply at the skin under Imhotep’s jaw, but it was only a rattling of the chains and they both knew it.

It even made Imhotep laugh; a low, rich sound brushed against Alex’s ear that made the muscles in his stomach clench and flutter.  It was not a sensation with which he was familiar, but he found he liked it all the same.  “Such fire,” he purred, giving Alex just a taste of a firmer kiss.  “Never tamed, but I wonder… can you be tempered?”

Alex didn’t have the slightest clue what that meant but bit his lip and nodded anyway, flushed and eager to please.  Imhotep hummed pleasure and caught Alex’s lower lip between his teeth, sparking a sharp moan on the verge of ‘too loud’ for their present venue.  “Let’s find out,” the man beneath him rumbled.  “Fold your arms behind your back, Khalex, so that you can hold your forearms with your hands.”

There was hesitation, but not for lack of willingness so much as Alex having no earthly clue how to move his body that way.  His total loss was apparently written all over his face, for Imhotep – with that crooked smirk Alex decided was completely unfair – moved his limbs into the right arrangement.  It wasn’t perfect, his left arm would take a long time to come back to anything like full dexterity, but it was enough of a guide that Alex could make his own adjustments from there.

It wasn’t an uncomfortable change, all things considered, but what surprised Alex most was how much it altered his balance.  Staying astride Imhotep was fine once he found the right angle for his knees, but staying upright without tipping one way or another was a constant game of micro-adjustments in the various muscle groups of his torso.  He liked to think that he would master this quickly under normal circumstances, but his head was slightly hazy and his balance already impaired as it was, so for the moment it was a challenge just by itself.  Imhotep watched him struggle with it, waiting until he saw the corrections get smaller before adding anything else to the mix. 

“Excellent,” he growled, restoring his hold on slim hips to help stabilize him further.  “Now, little one, tell me what you want.”

Even drunk and slightly distracted with keeping himself upright, Alex found he was still capable of the dry ‘over-the-glasses’ type stare that said ‘Are you _kidding_ me?’ better than any amount of vocalized exasperation.  “I’m practically riding you half naked with my dick dripping on your leg and you have to _ask?_ ”  Imhotep swatted his thigh – which made Alex gasp and his cock twitch – and bit a light reprimand into his lips.

“That mouth is going to get you into trouble one of these days.”  And though there was absolutely an edge of threat in Imhotep’s reproach, his voice never lost the warmth that made Alex feel _safe_ here, made him feel… made him feel _wanted_ here.  “Since you refuse to answer me politely, you will take what I give you.”  Alex was not at all ready for the way that phrase sparked arousal in his belly.  “Stay quiet or I stop.”  Which Alex sincerely hoped was relative since he was pretty sure no one would hear anything over the sound of the feast down the hall.  “Stay balanced or I stop.”  That one was actually fair, since he had no desire to end up in a heap of limbs on the floor right now. 

“Hold still, or I stop.”

Alex bit down hard on his lower lip, but nodded.  Already his thighs were beginning to ache from holding him steady in a position that was not so easy as one might think.  Imhotep’s smile grew wider, more wicked, and he leaned back against the cushioned bench.  His left hand rested on a small pillow next to Alex’s leg; his right one moved beneath the short chiton and brushed the backs of his fingers along Alex’s length.

It wasn’t enough and was too much all at once.  Alex felt like every muscle from his ribs to his knees just clenched in unison and there was half a heartbeat when he felt entirely paralyzed.  It stirred a kind of frenetic energy in him and more than anything Alex wanted to _move,_ but when he forced open his eyes and saw the way Imhotep was looking at him, he set his jaw and exerted what little self-control he had left.

“Oh,” Imhotep breathed out on a rough, pleased growl.  “Oh _good boy,_ Alaexandros.”  That kind of praise made Alex’s stomach do flips and (though he tried to swallow it) pushed a strangled whimper from his throat.  He was so focused on following the rules ( _stay still stay up stay quiet_ ) that he wasn’t paying an enormous amount of attention to anything else, so when Imhotep took him in hand properly his vision went momentarily white.

Imhotep was slow, steady – his hand over Alex was almost-but-not-quite satisfying.  Alex found himself panting for breath within minutes, thighs beginning to tremble with the combination of pleasure and constraint.  He was light-headed and flushed, soon unable to prevent the minute rocking of his hips in time with Imhotep’s hand.

Imhotep twisted his wrist at the top of one stroke, palming over the head in a way that made Alex nearly choke before resuming his motion, using his apostate’s own precum to ease the slide of skin on skin.  “Look at you,” he growled, something hungry in his voice that made all the muscles in Alex’s back seize up and then shiver loose.  “You try so hard, Khalex.”  Alex worked at making his eyes focus, but when he found Imhotep’s gaze, there was an intensity there that almost made him wish he hadn’t.  “Why?  Why do you push yourself to such extremes over and above what has been asked of you?”

Alex could already feel his mouth moving, shaping words that for some reason scared him.  He twisted his head rapidly down and away, eyes squeezed shut and lips pressed hard together.  He shook his head vehemently and half expected to be dumped unceremoniously to the floor.  When, instead, he felt Imhotep’s injured arm go around his hips, pulling him closer and steadying him all at once, when he felt the hand on his cock squeeze once and then slow to an agonizing crawl, he felt something crumbling in that space between his chest and his stomach. 

“Tell me.”

They were two words, spoken with a hard, unyielding tone.  At any other time, they would have made Alex nervous.  They probably should have made him nervous right now, but in his weakened, open state, Alex felt so much warmth, affection, feeling – impossible to convey in two little words, but there it was.  It was the last straw of an already crumbling resistance and his answer came out rough from a throat straining not to release the sounds of pleasure building up within it.

“I don’t.”

It was as far as he got before another twist of Imhotep’s hand wrenched a breathless cry from him.

“I _don’t,_ ” he repeated, “unless it’s you.”

 

  * \- -



 

Imhotep’s hand slowed further, the implications of that statement taking longer to sink in simply for the fact that it was the last he expected to hear.  When the shock wore off, a primal snarl ripped its way from his chest and he pulled the boy tighter against him.  Lips and teeth found the smooth, pale skin of his neck and attacked it with abandon; in that moment he needed more than anything to lay his claim.  The _sounds_ Alaexandros made – needy, desperate, pleading – lit a fire in his blood and Imhotep found desires awoken within himself that he had never before seriously entertained.

His own arousal, heavy and throbbing where it was caught between their two bodies, faded from a secondary to a tertiary concern.  It was another piece of the unparalleled experience that was possessing Alaexandros, but beyond that he gave it little thought – there would be plenty of time for that later.  He worked his mouth up to the soft skin just under Alaexandros’ ear, sucking lightly and smiling at the keening little whine he got in response before tilting his head just that little bit further.

“That means you are _mine,_ Alaexandros,” he purred, delighting in the way the boy’s entire body jerked hard against him.  “You belong to _me._ ”

“Yes,” Alaexandros gasped, the sweetest sound yet.  Imhotep tightened his hold around those hips and sped his hand.  “Yes, oh god _yes._ ”  It was confirmation of a gift he had never believed his life would hold, but as Imhotep sought the boy’s mouth and caught that lower lip between his teeth, he felt unimaginably – _perfectly_ – happy. 

“Come, Khalex,” he moaned, the words swallowed up in eager, messy kisses.  “Come for me.”

At this point, he had expected that command to be what pushed Alaexandros to his release; he had _not_ expected that it would be nearly so intense as it was.  The entire body he held jerked forward against him, thighs clamping down around his own – Alaexandros _sobbed_ into his mouth and fell helpless victim to the spasms that left hot seed dripping down Imhotep’s hand and stomach.  He had never seen release affect a body like that; it was _beautiful._  

When Alaexandros went absolutely boneless in his arms, Imhotep shifted him against his chest and lifted his right hand to lick it clean.  He didn’t know _why_ he did it – it had certainly never sounded like a good idea before now – but he also didn’t feel like questioning the impulse too deeply.  It was good, salty and tangy in a way that made him want to know how his Khalex would shatter under his mouth.

The sound of footsteps from the other end of the hall gave him just enough time to shift Alaexandros until he was held against his chest rather than straddling him.  It was a more innocent position – but only just.

Imhotep had spent a lifetime honing his expressions into a weapon and not a weakness; it was well he had, for otherwise his surprise at seeing Ankhesenamun walking toward them unattended would have given him away entirely.

“My lady,” he began, openly looking over her shoulders for any sign of an escort. 

“Relax,” she assured him, one hand lifted palm up in a sign of peace even as a predatory smile curved her generous mouth.  “It is finished.”

For one terrible instant, Imhotep thought only of what he had just been engaged in, before common sense caught up and reminded him of the reason all Pharaoh’s women had been absent that day.

“All is well, I trust?”

“Sadly, no,” she replied, though there was an edge to her tone that said she wasn’t all that sad about it.  “We lost them both tonight.”

“My condolences.”  It was the polite thing – the expected thing – to say in such circumstances, but it was hardly the first time this particular tragedy had struck in Pharaoh’s house.  Nor would it be the last, despite the desperate rush as Thutmose crested his twilight years.  Ankhesenamun shrugged one of her shoulders and stalked closer, shaking her head at the boy in his arms.

“Oh,” she crooned, a sweetness to her voice that set his teeth on edge.  “Poor lamb never sampled royal wine before, did he?”

Imhotep couldn’t help but see his apostate as something much closer to a panther kitten than a helpless lamb, but he did not dare make the correction – not even in play.  Ankhesenamun was a deft and agile player, underestimating her was to court death.  “Not hardly, no.”  But it presented as good an opportunity for escape as ever.  “If you would be so kind as to lend us one of your slaves to help us find our quarters for the night, I think it is best to let him sleep.”

He made to stand, but found his way blocked by Ankhesenamun, a significant obstacle to movement of any kind.  It was another play, but he could do nothing until she finished whatever gambit lay in wait.  “The whole city is talking about you.  Even in the harem we have heard talk of nothing else.”  She lifted one hand to press it warmly against his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye.  It was entirely inappropriate, but propriety had never stopped Ankhesenamun from doing as she liked when no one could see.  The little rebellions had always amused him, the touches simply another (albeit enjoyable) part of their repartee. 

Just now, however, he found that it made him vaguely uncomfortable. 

“The power you wield…”  She trailed off and shook her head, finally letting her hand fall away.  “You really are something special.  Is it true that you will succeed Ankhhaf?”

He knew better than to respond – there was no safe ground in this kind of conversation – and she stepped back soon enough, satisfaction in her smile.  “I will send Hippolyta to help you with your pet.  After all, I want him at his best now that his piece is well and truly on the board.”  Point made, she turned to go back to the celebrations and her Pharaoh.

Imhotep was left with ice slowly twisting knots in the pit of his stomach as terrible realization dawned on him – far too late and _far_ too slowly.

“Ankhesenamun,” he called after her, standing easily with Alaexandros in his arms.  She paused and turned her head just enough over one shoulder to let him know she was listening.  “What was it?  The one lost today?”

Ankhesenamun smiled.

“It was a boy.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> “Wherever this shadowed path might lead, we were both irrevocably committed to follow it to the end.” - Susan Kay


End file.
